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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Munsey Magazine, November 1927, with "For Granted"
This novella is a quiet, deeply humane story about duty, shame, endurance, and unexpected grace in a small British colonial port town. It follows three intertwined lives—Joey Craig, her alcoholic uncle Captain James Vincey, and the new office manager Mark Napier—all of whom are trapped in roles that others "take for granted..."
THE streets of Port Linton were empty under the brazen glare of the sun, so that Captain Vincey's steps rang loud. They were unsteady, too. The heat came up from the white coral road in tremulous waves, and worried him. The blue sea and the blue sky, the white buildings and the white roads, and the great, fierce, brassy sun all dazzled him. He dropped his stick with a clatter, and from under the swing door of Willie's Bar a dog ran out, sniffed at the stick, and ran back again.
"It's the heat," said Vincey to himself, as he straightened up.
But in his heart he was a little frightened by the giddiness, the surging in his head, and by the theatrically empty look of the world. He could not quite remember what had brought him out at this hour, but his footsteps were certainly directed toward the club.
He decided not to go there, and went on down the hill—a big, swaggering man, in a rumpled white linen suit and a green-lined helmet.
"A t-touch of the sun," he said to himself.
He realized now that he could not very well go home alone, though he wanted to go home. He had had no lunch. He had sat in his office, looking over some papers, with a bottle of whisky on the desk.
"Got to c-cut down on that," he thought. "Plays the devil with a man's health!"
Sometimes, in his blackest hours, he felt that perhaps it was not only his health that had suffered. He would remember the James Vincey who had come to Port Linton twenty years ago, and sometimes he even shed tears, thinking of that promising young man and of what he had become.
Turning the corner, he saw before him the cool, dim office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He made for it with what haste he could. There was his refuge.
The doors stood open, and in he went. It was a dignified and handsome office. Along one side was a mahogany counter, and facing it were groups of wicker chairs and tables beneath palms in pots. At the end was a low wooden railing with a gate, and behind this a girl sat at a typewriter.
As he went toward her, she came hurrying out of the inclosure, shutting the gate behind her.
"Hello, Uncle James!" she said casually.
"'Lo, Joey!" he answered. "T-touch—sun."
He sank heavily into one of the wicker chairs and took off his helmet.
"Shall I get you a carriage?" she asked.
"Might be 'visable," he said.
She turned, went back through the barrier to a door at the rear, and knocked.
"Come in!" said a voice.
She entered the private office, where a mild little gray-haired man sat at a desk.
"Uncle James isn't feeling very well," she said. There was no embarrassment in her manner, nor in the gray-haired man's. "I want to get a carriage, and I left my purse at home," she went on. "Can I get ten shillings, Mr. Brown, please?"
He pulled forward a little tin cash box, unlocked it, and took out a ten-shilling note. The girl, bending over his desk, wrote on a slip of paper:
July 8—ten shillings—J. Craig.
The transaction was a familiar one to both of them.
She was a thin young creature with dark gray eyes and bobbed hair cut square across her wide brow. She would have been pretty, with more color and animation. She might even have been beautiful; but her face was pale and impassive, and she had an air of quiet indifference, like one accustomed to being taken for granted and thankful to have it so.
"Why don't you drive home with him, Joey?"
"It's only half past two, Mr. Brown."
"There's nothing much to be done, Joey. Sprague will be back in a few moments. You go along with the captain."
"But the last day, Mr. Brown!"
"Pshaw!" said he. "Everything's ready for the new man, Joey. Everything's in order."
"I'm going to miss you awfully, Mr. Brown!"
There was a subdued sort of distress in her voice that touched him. He patted her shoulder kindly.
"I'll be coming back to the island in six months, Joey, and then I'll look in now and then to see how things are getting along. This new man—I don't fancy he'll make many changes. Things will go on in the same old way. You go along home with the captain, Joey."
"I wish you a good trip, Mr. Brown. Good-by!"
"Pshaw!" he said again. "Au revoir, we'll say, Joey."
"Au revoir, Mr. Brown, and thank you."
They shook hands, smiling at each other.
"I'll just step out now and say good afternoon to your uncle," said Brown.
Captain Vincey rose politely, dropping his helmet and stick.
"Wish you—besht—short of trip," he said.
He was perfectly aware that he was swaying on his feet and speaking indistinctly, and that his niece and Mr. Brown were both aware of it; but none of them felt constrained or embarrassed. Captain Vincey's little weakness was simply to be taken for granted.
The hack driver took it for granted. He helped the captain into the carriage—carriages are the only vehicles in Port Linton—with a grave and sympathetic air. Joey climbed in on the other side, and they set off. Every one who saw them took it for granted.
"There goes Vincey—tight again! Joey's taking him home."
They drove through the little town and out into the country, along the white road lined with oleanders, rose pink, creamy white, and scarlet, under the blue, blue sky. When she had first come here, this loveliness had stirred Joey to delight, but not any longer. She dare not be stirred now. She saw before her a way interminably long and weary, and she went forward in a sort of blindness, not stopping, not thinking, only enduring.
The carriage drew up before a little house standing on a hill, and the driver got down to assist the captain. He had a great deal of trouble, for Vincey was a big man and he a small one.
Joey picked up the helmet and stick from the road, and followed them to the house. Mrs. Vincey opened the door and received her son, and Joey paid the driver. All taken for granted!
"Your Uncle James says he doesn't care for any tea. It's this heat."
An unconquerable woman was Captain Vincey's mother—slight and small, straight as a dart, always neat and dignified and smiling. She was nearly seventy, but she did not look it, so great was the spirit that animated her fragile body.
She had made a pot of tea, and she and her granddaughter drank it in the kitchen.
"Joey," she said, "I'll have to ask you to get me a little money to-morrow."
"To-morrow? But the new man's coming to-morrow, gran."
Both were silent for a time, looking out of the window, where below them the blue Atlantic stretched, unendurably bright in the sun. Mrs. Vincey was thinking of her old home in Kent, of green fields and dripping trees under the soft blue of an April sky. It was strange that the days of her girlhood seemed so close to her, so much more real than all the years of wandering with her engineer husband in South America, in Canada, in New York. That was all a little nebulous. What was vivid was the memory of her Kentish fields.
But to Joey the memory of her girlhood seemed so remote as to be incredible. She was the only child of Mrs. Vincey's daughter and her American husband, left an orphan now, and penniless. She had come to Port Linton from New York, three years ago, a jolly, lively schoolgirl of seventeen, ready for adventure; and she had found—this.
"I think you'd be happier if you found something to do, wouldn't you, Joey?" Mrs. Vincey had said.
Joey had gone to see Mr. Brown—who was expecting her—and he had taken her into his office.
Mrs. Vincey stayed home and kept house. With smiling dignity she faced tradesmen who explained why they could give her no more credit. Morning after morning she telephoned her son's business partner, to tell him that "Captain Vincey was ill, and couldn't come to the office." She cooked meals and served them decently, out of Heaven knows what pitiful materials. She had kept the house neat, she had sat up at night, patching and turning and mending clothes for them all.
And she would not see, she dared not see, what was happening to Joey—the jolly schoolgirl turning into this pale, still woman. She would willingly have given her life for Joey, but she would not admit her son's shame. It must be taken for granted!
Better to look at the dazzling blue sea than at Joey's pale face.
"Another cup of tea, Joey?"
"Yes, thank you, gran."
They did not mention the money again. Joey knew that her grandmother would not have asked for it, if it had not been urgently needed; and Mrs. Vincey knew that if it were in any way possible, Joey would get it for her at any cost.
The sun went down and a fresh breeze sprang up. The two women ate their supper of bread and cheese and more tea, in the kitchen, while Captain Vincey slept upstairs in his room. The moon came up and made a silver path on the dark sea, for prisoners to look at, if they chose.
"Good night, gran dear!"
"Good night, Joey. You're a good girl, Joey. Sleep well!"
But Joey did not sleep very well. She sat up in bed, looking out at the garden, where the moon was shining. A breeze blew in her face, fragrant with jasmine.
"If only the new manager will be nice!" she thought. "Oh, please let him be nice!"
The captain was much better in the morning. He bathed and shaved, put on a clean white suit, and came down to breakfast in a witty and cheerful humor.
"Left my bicycle at the club," he said. "You'd better telephone for a carriage, Joey. The walk into town is a little too much for me—at my age."
As Joey had had to leave her own bicycle at the office the day before, in order to take him home, he asked her to drive in with him; but she said she would enjoy the walk.
Two miles of white coral road in the blazing sun, after an insufficient breakfast! It was better, though, than sitting beside the captain, driving in state past the shops where they owed money.
She was a little late, and the boat had come in unusually early. She was lying alongside the wharf, already unloading, and the door of the private office was shut.
"He's come!" Sprague whispered to her. "He's in there, talking to McLean."
"What's he like?" asked Joey.
"Hard as nails!" said Sprague.
She uncovered her typewriter and sat down before it, but she had no work to do. She could only sit there, with her heart like lead.
The door of the private office opened, and McLean came out.
"Mr. Napier wants to see you," he said briefly to Joey. As he moved away, she heard him mutter: "New brooms sweep clean!"
She got up and went into the private office, and there, at Mr. Brown's desk, sat the new man. It was a shock to find him so young. He looked almost boyish. He was thin and dark, with a careless, preoccupied air.
"Miss Craig?" he said. "Sit down! Take a letter, please. 'Messrs. Pryden & Fort, P-r-y—'"
"I'm sorry, but I don't take shorthand," Joey interrupted in her quiet way.
He glanced up at her.
"I thought—" he began, and stopped short as their eyes met.
MARK NAPIER was hard as nails, in a way. Lucky for him that he was!
He had been a boy of eighteen, just out of school, and ready to enter Oxford, when the war broke out. He had enlisted, and had been sent to Flanders; had been wounded, patched up and sent back, and wounded twice again. The third time the doctors told him that very likely he would never walk again.
For six months he had lain in the hospital, facing that possibility, facing all the other new things he had learned. In the course of time the doctors had reversed their decision, and he was discharged as cured—a most interesting case.
He went home—only he had no home to go to. The war had done for his family. His mother had died, his brother had been killed, and so had most of the friends he had cared for. There was no money—nothing at all left for young Napier.
He had got a post as clerk in the London office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He had been only twenty-two then, and a queer mixture of boyishness and maturity. He had had a lifetime of experience of a sort; but of average, everyday life he knew next to nothing. He was a shabby, silent boy, coolly and doggedly determined to get on in the world.
He had got on. Here he was, at twenty-nine, manager of the Port Linton branch, going to master Port Linton and go on to something better. He was still very young and intolerant in some ways, very mature in others. He was very lonely, proud as Lucifer, and stubborn as a mule.
The leisurely air of the office—his office—had annoyed him. He knew how to handle men—he had learned that as a lieutenant at twenty-one. He was just, and he was inflexible. He saw that things were lamentably slack here, and he had wasted no time in telling Sprague and McLean that a new era had begun.
He had intended to let this girl know it, too—until he had glanced up and their eyes met.
Hard as nails was young Napier with Sprague, and McLean, and every one else with whom he did business; but not with Joey.
"Mr. Brown used to give me notes about the letters, and I answered them myself," she explained.
Napier gave her his letters, and she answered them in the courteous and stilted fashion that Mr. Brown had taught her.
"I'm sorry," said Napier, "but I'm afraid this won't quite do. Sit down, and I'll give you some idea of what I want."
While he talked, he often glanced at her, and always he found her steadfast gray eyes fixed upon his face. She took the letters away and did them over again—his way this time.
"She's game," he thought. "No whining—no excuses!"
The others obeyed his orders because they had to; but Joey wanted to. She was eager to help. She admired his way of doing things. She was his friend.
He had plenty of difficulties in this new job. Port Linton was a conservative British colony, and some of the old clients resented young Napier. McLean was dourly hostile; Sprague, under an obliging manner, was impatient and scornful. Only Joey stood by him with absolute loyalty.
He would leave the door of his office open, so that he could see her at her typewriter. Even after she had gone, as he sat later at his work, he would look at the place where she had been and remember her wide-browed, candid face, her dark hair, her gray eyes. For that slender, quiet girl he felt a respect that was almost reverence, for she had the qualities that he prized above all others—dignity, reserve, and loyalty.
They had very little to say to each other during those first three days, for they were very busy; but he was always aware of Joey, and in his heart he always had confidence that she was his friend, his faithful helper.
"There's no one like her," he thought comfortably.
He thought her beautiful, too. He thought that her rare, slow smile was a wonderful thing, that her voice was the most solacing in all the world, that her sunburned hands were lovelier than any he had ever seen. His solitary and inflexible spirit turned toward her as its one refuge.
Late on Friday afternoon McLean brought him the books, which he wanted to look over before paying the salaries on Saturday morning. Every one else had gone home, and he and McLean sat alone in the private office, which was filled with the light of the sunset.
"Now!" thought McLean, watching. "Now you'll have something to talk about, my lad!"
"What's this?" said Napier, frowning.
"What?" asked McLean, who knew very well.
"Here's fifteen pounds advanced to Sprague against his salary, before Christmas. It seems that he began paying it off, ten shillings a week, but here's a month without paying anything; and here—why, he's been getting full pay for the past six weeks, and he still owes seven pounds!"
"His mother's been ill," said McLean.
Napier said nothing. He didn't need to speak—his look was enough.
"You'll also find," volunteered McLean, "that on the first of the month I had a week's salary in advance."
"This won't do!" said Napier briefly.
McLean emptied Mr. Brawn's little cash box on the desk.
"What's this?" said Napier, looking at the slips of paper. "'July 5, five shillings—J. Craig,' 'July 8, ten shillings—J. Craig'—so many of them!"
"It's for cash advanced," said McLean, looking at him.
"I see!" said Napier.
He stacked all the slips into a neat little pile and sat for a moment staring at them. It was a disgraceful thing, to run an office like this. It was not only slack, but very close to dishonesty. It was the firm's money these people were using.
"Have a cigarette?" he said abruptly, holding out his case to McLean.
"Thanks!" replied McLean, hiding a start of surprise.
For a time they smoked in silence.
"I can't be hard on Sprague and McLean and not speak to her," Napier was thinking. "That would be too damned unjust. Her whole week's salary has been paid already, and she may need it badly. She may be in serious trouble."
A great wave of tenderness swept over him as he thought of Joey. She was so pale and slight, so young.
"He's almost human, after all!" McLean told himself, glancing at the new manager. He waited for awhile. "Well?" he inquired at last. "What do you want me to do about the pay envelopes, Mr. Napier?"
"Deduct ten shillings from Sprague's," said Napier. "Deduct ten shillings each week until his loan is repaid. It's impossible to run an office like this. Now, what about you? How do you want to manage your advance? Ten—"
"You can pay me nothing at all this week," McLean replied curtly.
There was another silence.
"What about—Miss Craig?" asked Napier. "Is she—entirely dependent on her salary?"
"I can't say."
"Does she—live alone?"
"She does not. She lives with her uncle and her grandmother."
"Her uncle—what does he do?"
"He's in the commission business."
The sun was going down, and the light was draining fast out of the sky. Napier's face was in shadow.
"McLean has a wife and child," he thought, "and Sprague supports his mother. She lives at home, with her people. I've got to be just!"
"Well?" asked McLean.
"Don't make up an envelope for Miss Craig," said Napier, rising.
After a solitary dinner, he walked down to the water front, and smoked a pipe, looking out over the little harbor. He was very unhappy over this problem.
>"YOU see," said Mark Napier, "I want to start with a clean slate, Miss Craig. You will understand."
He was sitting on the edge of his desk, facing her, and she looked steadily back at him.
"Yes, I do see!" she said.
And it was true. He wasn't like Mr. Brown, mild and kind and easy-going.
"I want to make a success of this thing," he had told her before, and she had responded whole-heartedly.
He couldn't understand her miserable anxieties, and she didn't want him to. She wanted to help him make a success.
"But—er—if you would rather," he said now, "we could deduct a little every week."
His dark face had flushed, but he kept his eyes upon her with an anxious intensity. If she wanted her money, she should have it.
"Oh, no, thanks!" replied Joey politely. "It's all right as it is, thank you."
Her face grew scarlet. She dropped her eyes and turned away her head; and, seeing her so, he knew that he loved her.
"If there's ever anything I can do—" he said unsteadily.
She glanced at him, and again their eyes met. She had never seen a look like that on any face.
"Th-thank you, Mr. Napier," she stammered, and went away in haste.
She had no money for lunch, but she was not hungry. The hours went by quickly; she worked well to-day, and her heart was singing.
"See here, Miss Craig!" She looked up from her typewriter and saw Napier standing beside her. "You haven't been out to lunch—and it's two o'clock."
"I just wanted to finish this last letter," said Joey.
Again their eyes met, and he was dazzled by her loveliness. Her cheeks were burning with heat and fatigue, and her eyes were brilliant.
"Look here!" he said. "You're tired. I want you to go home and rest."
"Oh, no, thanks!"
"You do as I tell you!" ordered Napier. Fear made him brusque. He was worried about Joey. "Come! Get your hat and go home!" he said.
"But the letters—"
"Never mind the letters," he said. "Plenty of time on Monday morning. Look here! You will rest, won't you?"
He was dismayed by the change that came over her. All the color suddenly left her face, and she looked terribly white and strained.
"I didn't mean to be—abrupt," he said hastily. "It's only—"
"I know!" said Joey, and smiled at him.
It was a smile that he did not soon forget, steadfast and radiant.
She had just remembered that she was going home empty-handed; and she was conscious now of a sharp headache and a great weariness, as if these things had also been waiting to be remembered. As she mounted her bicycle, her knees felt weak. The sun beat down upon her, stinging her shoulders beneath her thin blouse. Her eyes hurt from the glare of the white road. Her heart ached, as well as her head. She was Captain Vincey's niece again, burdened by a hundred disgraceful anxieties.
"He'll find out," she thought. "Some one will tell him about—Uncle James."
She did not delude herself with the notion that it would make no difference. Napier was not the sort to take Captain Vincey for granted. He was not tolerant. He wanted everything just right.
She found Mrs. Vincey sitting on the veranda, darning.
"Joey! So early! What's the matter, dear?"
"I just felt—tired," replied Joey; "but I'll be all right after a nice cup of tea, gran."
"We've run out of tea, Joey."
"Oh!" said Joey, and sat down on the steps.
Mrs. Vincey stood behind her, turning and turning a sock in her thin hands.
"Unless you—brought home—anything," she said.
"There wasn't anything coming to me this week," said Joey.
There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Vincey stood looking down at that little dark head.
"Would you like a glass of lemonade, Joey?" she asked.
Joey wanted nothing except to be let alone, but the anxiety in Mrs. Vincey's voice touched her beyond endurance.
"That would be awfully nice!" she began brightly, and then suddenly burst into tears.
"Come upstairs and lie down, my deary!"
Mrs. Vincey went up with her to the neat little room, dim and cool with the blinds drawn down, fresh with the smell of the sea.
"Lie down, deary! That's it! I'll unbutton your slippers. Never mind, Joey, my deary—just take a little rest."
"I'm all right now, gran."
Better not to notice that Joey was still crying, with her head buried in the pillow. Mrs. Vincey went out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her, and stood outside in the hall, clasping her hands tight.
"I haven't anything to give her!" she thought. "Oh, it's too much! She's so young!"
She thought of one little thing she could do—a very little thing. She put on her hat and went down the road a little way, to a small grocery shop.
"Good day, Mr. Spier!"
"Good day, ma'am!"
"I'd like two fresh eggs and a tin of milk and a quarter pound of Ceylon tea and a quarter pound of butter, please, Mr. Spier."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stood there while Mr. Spier put the things into a bag. Then she had to tell him that she would pay next Saturday, and to listen to Mr. Spier saying that the bill was already so large, and had run on so long, and times were so hard, that he didn't see how he could—well, just this once, then.
A small package to carry, a small thing to do; yet Mrs. Vincey would have preferred to shut herself into the house and die for lack of food, rather than ask a favor from Mr. Spier.
When she got home, she made a nice little omelet, a cup of tea, and two slices of buttered toast, and brought them up to Joey; and Joey felt better.
Later in the afternoon a neighbor brought them a basket of tomatoes and beans, and Mrs. Vincey and Joey sat out in the back garden under a cedar tree, stringing the beans, and talking a little to each other—not talking much because of the things they must not say.
"James was quite himself this morning," thought Mrs. Vincey. "If only the—the heat doesn't trouble him, and he can attend to business, things ought to be better next week. Sunday dinner—who wants meat in this weather? If only James can—can keep well!"
For, with all her superb courage, there were things that Mrs. Vincey would not face.
"Aren't the roses doing well?" said Joey.
She was thinking that, after all, things couldn't be so bad. Something would surely happen!
A carriage was coming along the road. Mrs. Vincey glanced up. Joey sat very still. Oh, no, it couldn't be! Stopping here!
They did not move, or speak, or look at each other. The carriage had stopped. The garden gate creaked, and footsteps were coming along the path at the front of the house—heavy and uncertain steps. They could not see; they did not need to see.
At the sound of the steps mounting to the veranda, Mrs. Vincey rose and went around to the front of the house, neat, smiling, and dignified. With a civil nod for the driver who had assisted him, she took her son's arm to lead him into the house; but he was in a bad mood.
"The damned young jackanapes!" he shouted. "Sitting there—old Brown's place—damned young jackanapes—threw me out of office!"
"Will you—settle with the driver, Joey?" asked Mrs. Vincey, very low.
Joey did not answer. She was standing near the foot of the steps, with such a look on her face!
The driver saw that look, and walked back to his carriage. Mrs. Vincey saw it, and her face grew rigid. Captain Vincey turned to see what she was staring at, and he, too, saw it. It silenced him.
MARK NAPIER was sitting in the club that evening, reading the newspaper. He had brought letters of introduction, and he knew a good many men here—to nod to, at any rate; but conservative Port Linton was quite willing to let him alone for awhile, and he preferred it so. He was not genial, and had no talent for camaraderie. He was slow to give his friendship, but, once given, it was worth keeping.
The light of a shaded lamp fell on his dark face.
"Pig-headed young jackanapes!" thought Captain Vincey. "But here goes—on little Joey's account!"
Crossing the room, he flung himself into a chair beside Napier.
"Well!" he said.
Napier glanced quietly at him.
"Thing is," said the captain, "you didn't know who I was, eh?"
"Not then," said Napier.
He had been alone in his office that afternoon when this man had come in—a big, swaggering man in a rumpled white suit, obviously half drunk.
"You're new manager?" he had begun.
"I'm busy," Napier had said.
"I'm great friend old Brown'sh."
"I'm busy," Napier had repeated.
The visitor had sat down and begun to talk about Port Linton.
"Jewel shet in shea—"
Napier had pressed a button.
"Show this gentleman out," he had said, when Sprague appeared.
The gentleman had protested vehemently, and had called Napier a "blasted little whippersnapper" and other things; but Sprague had taken his arm and got him out, murmuring soothing words in his ear.
"That was Captain Vincey, sir," he had said, when he returned. "He's Miss Craig's uncle."
He had spoken with a sort of horror, and he was horrified; but the new manager had only said:
"Don't let him come in here again."
Under Napier's curt manner there had been a great dismay. This fellow her uncle? Evidently he was in the habit of coming to the office. Perhaps she would be hurt, or angry. Napier would do almost anything rather than hurt or anger Joey—almost anything; but he would not tolerate Captain Vincey. The firm had sent him out here to run this office properly, and he was going to do it. He hoped Joey would understand.
"Well, now you know!" said Vincey genially.
Napier did not reply, and the captain began to grow angry; but he remembered that look on Joey's face.
James Vincey had been a handsome man in his day, and even now, wreck as he was, he had considerable personal charm. People liked him, and made allowances for him. For Joey's sake he would make this fellow like him.
"Have a drink?" he said.
"No, thanks," said Napier.
Unfortunately, it was a part of Vincey's code to consider a refusal to drink as an insult, and his face grew crimson. He was about to speak, when again he remembered that look on Joey's face, and again restrained himself.
"In climate like this—" he said. "You're a newcomer. Wait till you've been here a bit. You've never been out of England before, eh?"
"I spent nearly four years—in Belgium and France," said Napier, "and the climate wasn't very wholesome, where I was."
"Oh! The war, eh?" said Vincey.
An unwelcome memory awakened in him. He remembered how, at the beginning of the war, he had gone to enlist, and the doctor had rejected him—a fine, big fellow in the forties, in the prime of life. Vincey had been very indignant.
The doctor had known him well, and had made allowances.
"I'd advise you, Vincey," he had said, "to cut down on—er—alcoholic stimulants."
So Vincey had stayed behind in Port Linton, while his friends went overseas. He had wangled some sort of military post for himself, and had been made a captain; but a captain who sat at a desk was not what suited him, and for some weeks he had let "alcoholic stimulants" alone.
But he had gone back to them. "The strain of the war," he said to himself; and then, when it was over, there was the strain of his uncomfortable financial position.
He glanced uneasily at Napier. This young jackanapes had had four years of it. Well, some fellows were like that—they could stand a strain.
He beckoned to one of the colored boys and ordered a whisky and soda.
"This climate—" he explained.
Then, to his great indignation, the other man rose.
"If there's anything I can do for you, let me know," said Napier, and walked off.
Vincey was purple with anger. He half rose, but the whisky had come, and he sank back to drink it. His eyes glaringly followed Napier.
"Damned young prig!" he said to himself.
Slender and strong and straight was the young prig, with a fine pair of shoulders and a well set head. A steady hand the young prig had, a steady voice, a steady glance. Four years of it!
"Another whisky!" called Captain Vincey.
He gulped it down, waiting for the familiar feeling of partial oblivion; but it did not come. Something within him was wide awake.
"Joey!" he thought.
His thoughts were not clear; they never were clear in these days. He felt a confused sort of anguish, for he had fleeting glimpses of Joey's face, and it hurt him. He loved Joey, and had meant to do much for her—his only sister's child. He still would do something for her—something, but what could he do?
That fellow—taken a fancy to him, had she? Well, perhaps she'd get over it, once she knew how he had treated her uncle.
"Joey's very fond of me," he thought.
Then he remembered the James Vincey he had been long ago—a promising young fellow. A girl had been fond of him, but she had decided to wait until he stopped drinking; and in the course of time he had forgotten about her.
"Don't want—make trouble," he thought. "If Joey likes the fellow—"
A clear moment came to him.
"You'll never stop now!" he said to himself. "You'll never do anything for any one now! 'Nother whisky!" he cried aloud, with a sob.
He saw James Vincey stumbling through the rest of his days, a cruel burden to his mother, a disgrace to Joey—ruining Joey's life before it had well begun. He knew Joey. If it came to a choice between himself and that young prig, Joey would stand by her uncle.
And it had come to a choice. Joey would let Napier see what she thought of his turning her uncle out of the office!
As he was going out, somebody called Napier into the billiard room and held him in conversation for a few moments; and when at last he left the club, he saw Captain Vincey going down the hill before him, reeling a little.
It was not pleasant for Napier to pass Miss Craig's uncle, but he did not slacken his pace. He was going to be here, on a small island, with Captain Vincey, for a good long while. Inevitably he would have to meet the man often. The same quality which had enabled Mark Napier to face danger and death and agony, to make his way in the world quite alone, made it impossible to shirk any unpleasantness. He went on down the hill and passed Vincey with a curt good night.
"A fine lad!" thought Vincey. "A fine, strong, clean lad!"
For though Captain Vincey's steps were so uncertain, his brain was very clear now.
Napier had turned the corner, and was walking rapidly along the street that fronted the harbor, when he heard a splash. He stopped and turned his head. The shops were all closed, and there was not a soul in sight. There was not a sound—not a sound of those stumbling footsteps that had been following his own.
He ran back to the corner and crossed to the deserted wharf. Floating on the dark water was a white helmet.
He kicked off his shoes, threw off his coat, and jumped in over his head.
CALEB was half asleep on the seat of his carriage. He did not expect any fares, but it was a fine night, and his wife was always disagreeable if he came home too early.
He heard footsteps, and opened his eyes. Two men were coming along the street very slowly, arm in arm. That looked hopeful. He sat up.
Then, as they passed under a street lamp, he sat bolt upright; for he saw that they were both bareheaded and dripping wet, their linen suits sodden.
"Cap'n Vincey," he said to himself, "and that new young fella!" He shook with silent laughter. "Dey surely been havin' a good time!" he thought. "Been overboa'd!"
They came on in silence until they reached Caleb's carriage. The young man hoisted Vincey in, and followed himself.
"Drive to Captain Vincey's house," he said sharply.
"Yes, sir!" replied the driver, still shaken with internal mirth.
Off they went along the road, which gleamed softly white in the starlight. A breeze blew in their faces, bearing the sweet and heavy scent of night flowers.
"Napier," said James Vincey, "I'm much obliged to you. Missed my footing. It might have ended badly for me. Very much obliged to you, my boy!"
"You didn't miss your footing," contradicted Napier in a very low voice. "You—"
"My boy," interrupted Captain Vincey, equally low, "it's necessary in this life to take a good deal for granted. When you reach my age, you'll probably have learned"—he paused a moment—"probably have learned to take it for granted that almost every man has a white streak in him. Now we'll say no more about it, if you please!"
The horse's hoofs rang loud and brisk in the quiet night. As they passed the door of the club, two men were coming out.
"Who's that?" asked one of them.
"By jove, it's Vincey and that new chap—rolling home!"
"Ha! I saw them having a few drinks in the club."
"Oh, well!" said the other indulgently.
Napier and Vincey both heard the conversation.
"You see!" said Vincey, and chuckled. "My intentions were good—meant to make a neat exit."
"No need for you to do that, sir."
There was something in his tone which Captain Vincey had not heard for a very long time.
"My boy," he said, "see here—I'm not asking for sympathy."
"Suppose we take that for granted, too, sir?" said Napier.
He might have been a young officer speaking to his senior; or, thought the older man, he might have been a son speaking to his father. Vincey leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and set his teeth hard.
"My boy!" he said. "My boy!"
"Here we are, sir," said Napier, as the carriage stopped. "Wait," he told the driver, and helped Vincey out.
Mrs. Vincey was standing in the lighted doorway.
"James!" she cried. "What has happened?"
"Captain Vincey missed his footing," Napier explained.
"Come in!" said Mrs. Vincey, neat, smiling, and dignified again.
So Napier crossed the threshold.
"The kettle's on," said Mrs. Vincey. "Joey will make some nice hot tea, to ward off a chill."
"Ha!" said Vincey. "Hot tea, eh?" He glanced at his companion, and then for the first time he saw Napier smile. "My boy!" he said.
Mrs. Vincey, watching them, felt as if an immense burden were lifted from her weary shoulders. This stranger, in his youth and strength and confidence, had come to her aid.
"Won't you sit down?" she asked anxiously.
"Thank you," said Napier, accepting the invitation.
His dark hair was plastered against his forehead, and the water was running off his jacket into pools on the floor; but he paid no attention to that. The captain presented him, and he talked to Mrs. Vincey about London. He was perfectly quiet and matter-of-fact. He was taking everything for granted.
Joey brought in the tea, and he rose; and Mrs. Vincey hurried out into the kitchen, to cry, because of the look she had seen pass between them. It was a look of faith and love—taken for granted.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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