Tourmalin's Time Cheques. Anstey F.

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СКАЧАТЬ a kind of epistolary examination-paper, to test the progress he was making. This one contained some searching questions on Buckle's History of Civilisation, which he was expected to answer by return of post. He was not supposed to look at the book, though he had; and even then he felt himself scarcely better fitted to floor the tremendous posers devised by Sophia's unwearying care.

      The day before, he had had "search-questions" in English poetry from Chaucer to Mr. Lewis Morris, which had thinned and whitened his hair; but this was, if possible, even worse.

      He wished now that he had got up his Buckle more thoroughly during his voyage on the Boomerang– and, with the name, his arrangement with the Manager suddenly rose to his recollection. What had he done with that book of Time Cheques? If he could only get away, if but for a quarter of a hour – away from those sombre rooms, with their outlook on dingy housetops and a murky rhubarb-coloured sky, – if he could really exchange all that for the sunniness and warmth and delicious idleness which had once seemed so tedious, what a rest it would be! And would he not return after such an interlude with all his faculties invigorated, and better able to cope with the task he now found almost insuperable?

      The first thing was to find the cheque-book, which did not take him long; though when he had found it, something made him pause before filling up a cheque. What if he had been made a fool of – if the Anglo-Australian Joint Stock Time Bank Limited never existed, or had suspended payment? But that was easily settled by presenting a cheque. Why should he not, just by way of experiment? His balance was intact as yet; he was never likely to need a little ready time more than he did just then. He would draw the minimum amount, fifteen minutes, and see how the system worked.

      So, although he had little real confidence that anything would happen at all, he drew a cheque, and slipped it behind the frivolous and rather incorrect little ormolu clock upon his chimneypiece.

      The result was instantaneous, and altogether beyond his expectations! The four walls of his room assumed the transparency of gauze for a second, before fading entirely away; the olive fog changed to translucent blue; there was a briny breath in the air, and he himself was leaning upon the rail at the forward end of the hurricane-deck of the Boomerang, which was riding with a slow and stately rise and fall over the heaving swell.

      That was surprising enough; but more surprising still was the discovery that he was apparently engaged in close and confidential conversation with a lovely person in whom he distinctly recognised Miss Tyrrell.

      "Yes, I forgive you, Mr. Tourmalin," she was saying, with an evident effort to suppress a certain agitation; "but indeed, indeed, you must never speak to me like that again!"

      Now, as Peter was certainly not conscious of ever having spoken to her at all in his life, this was naturally a startling and even embarrassing beginning.

      But he had presence of mind enough to take in the position of affairs, and adapt himself to them. This was one of the quarters of an hour he would have had, and it was clear that in some portion or other of his spare time he would have made Miss Tyrrell's acquaintance in some way. Of course, he ought to have been paid that particular time first; but he could easily see from her manner, and the almost tender friendliness which shone in her moistened eyes, that at this period they had advanced considerably beyond mere acquaintanceship. There had been some little mistake probably; the cheques had been wrongly numbered perhaps, or else they were honoured without regard to chronological sequence, which was most confusing.

      Still, he had nothing to do but conceal his ignorance as well as he could, and pick up the loose threads as he went along. He was able, at all events, to assure her that he would not, if he could help it, incur her displeasure by speaking to her "like that" in future.

      "Thanks," she said. "I know it was only a temporary forgetfulness; and – and if what you suspect should prove to be really true – why, then, Mr. Tourmalin, then, of course, you may come and tell me so."

      "I will," he said; "I shall make a point of it. Only," he thought to himself, "she will have to tell me first what I'm to tell her."

      "And in the meantime," she said, "let us go on as before, as if you had never brought yourself to confide your sad story to me."

      So he had told a sad story, had he? he thought, much bewildered; for, as he had no story belonging to him of that character, he was afraid he must have invented one, while, of course, he could not ask for information.

      "Yes," he said, with great presence of mind, "forget my unhappy story – let it never be mentioned between us again. We will go on as before —exactly as before."

      "It is our only course," she agreed. "And now," she added, with a cheerfulness that struck him as a little forced, "suppose we talk of something else."

      Peter considered this a good suggestion, provided it was a subject he knew a little more about; which, unhappily, it was not.

      "You never answered my question," she reminded him.

      He would have liked, as Ministers say in the House, "previous notice of that question;" but he could hardly say so in so many words.

      "No," he said. "Forgive me if I say that it is a – a painful subject to me."

      "I understand that," she said, gently (it was more than he did); "but tell me only this: was it that that made you behave as you did? You are sure you had no other reason?"

      ["If I say I had," thought Peter, "she will ask me what it was."] "I will be as frank as possible, Miss Tyrrell," he replied. "I had no other reason. What other reason could I have had?"

      "I half fancied – but I ought to have seen from the first that, whatever it was, it was not that. And now you have made everything quite clear."

      "I am glad you find it so," said Peter, with a touch of envy.

      "But I might have gone on misunderstanding and misjudging, putting you down as proud and cold and unsociable, or prejudiced, but for the accident which brought us together, in spite of your determination that we should remain total strangers!"

      It was an accident which had made them acquainted, then? He would draw the cheque which contained that episode of his extra time sooner or later; but it was distinctly inconvenient not to have at least some idea of what had happened.

      "A fortunate accident for me, at all events!" he said, with a judicious recourse to compliment.

      "It might have been a very unfortunate one for poor papa," she said, "but for you. I do believe he would have been quite inconsolable."

      Peter felt an agreeable shock. Had he really been fortunate enough to distinguish himself by rescuing the Judge's fair daughter from some deadly peril? It looked very like it. He had often suspected himself of a latent heroism which had never had an opportunity of being displayed. This opportunity must have occurred, and he have proved equal to the occasion, in one of those extra hours!

      "I can quite imagine that he would be inconsolable indeed!" he said gallantly. "Fortunately, I was privileged to prevent such a calamity."

      "Tell me again exactly how you did it," she said. "I never quite understood."

      Peter again took refuge in a discreet vagueness.

      "Oh," he replied, modestly, "there's not much to tell. I saw the – er – danger, and knew there wasn't a moment to lose; and then I sprang forward, and – well, you know the rest as well as I do!"

      "You only just caught him as he was going СКАЧАТЬ