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The Lighted Way, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 37. The Ships Come In |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVII. THE SHIPS COME IN The accountant was preparing to take his leave. There had been an informal little meeting held in the dingy private office of Messrs. Samuel Weatherley & Company, at which he had presided. "I really feel," he said, as he drew on his gloves thoughtfully, "that I must repeat my congratulations to you, Mr. Jarvis, and to your young coadjutor here, Mr. Chetwode. The results which I have had the pleasure of laying before you are quite excellent. In fact, so far as I can remember, the firm has scarcely ever had a more prosperous half year." "Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and most satisfactory to us. We've worked hard, of course, but that doesn't amount to much, after all. When you've been in a business, as I have in this one, for something like thirty-five years, the interest you take in it is such that you can't help working. This I must say, though," he went on, placing his hand on Arnold's shoulder, "Mr. Chetwode is almost a newcomer here, and yet his energy has sometimes astounded me. Most remarkable and most creditable! For the last two months, Mr. Neville, he has scarcely slept in London for a single night. He has been to Bristol and Cardiff and Liverpool--all over the country, in fact--in the interests of the firm, with results that have sometimes astonished us." The accountant nodded approvingly. He took up the balance sheet which they had been perusing and placed it in its envelope. "I shall now," he said, "call upon Mr. Weatherley, and I am sure he will be most gratified. I understand that our next meeting is to be down here." Mr. Jarvis beamed. "Although I must say," he admitted, "that the responsibility has been a great pleasure, still, we shall be heartily glad to see Mr. Weatherley back again." "I am sure of it," the accountant assented. "I understand that he has made a complete recovery." "Absolutely his own self again, sir," Mr. Jarvis declared, "and looking better than ever." "Odd thing, though, that loss of memory," the accountant remarked. "I was talking to the doctor about it only the other day. He seems to have wandered away into some sort of hiding, under the impression that he had committed a crime, and now that he is getting better he has absolutely forgotten all about it. He just thinks that he has had an ordinary illness and has had to stay away from business for a time." "Queer thing altogether, sir," Mr. Jarvis admitted; "a queer business, sir. However, it's over and done with, and the less said about it, the better. We are both very much obliged to you, Mr. Neville, for your kind offices, and I am only thankful that the results have been so satisfactory." Mr. Jarvis conducted his visitor to the door and returned to Arnold with beaming face. In anticipation of the accountant's visit he was wearing a frock-coat, which was already a shade too small for him. He carefully divested himself of this garment, put on his linen office-coat and turned towards his companion. "Chetwode," he said, "I have a proposition to make. The firm shall stand us a little dinner this evening, which we will take together. We will go up to the west-end. You shall choose the proper place and order everything--just the best you can think of. The firm shall pay. Mr. Weatherley would be quite agreeable, I am sure." Arnold forced himself to accept the suggestion with some appearance of pleasure. "Delighted!" he agreed. "We'll have to finish up the letters and go through this mail first." "Just so," Mr. Jarvis replied. "After that, we'll shut up shop. This is quite a red-letter day, Chetwode. I knew that we'd held our own, but I must confess that I found those figures most exhilarating. Our little bonus, too, will be worth having." Later on, they found their way to a restaurant in the Strand, where Mr. Jarvis ate and drank perhaps better than he had ever done in his life. The evening to him was one of unalloyed pleasure, and he was genuinely disappointed when Arnold pleaded an engagement as an excuse for not finishing up at a music-hall. About nine o'clock the two men parted, Mr. Jarvis to spend the rest of the evening alone, with a big cigar in his mouth and an unaccustomed feeling of levity in his head. Arnold, after a moment's hesitation, walked slowly back to his empty rooms. So this was success! Without a friend in the world, without training or any practical knowledge of life, his feet were firmly planted upon the ladder. He had stifled all sorts of nameless ambitions. He had set his teeth and done what appeared to be his duty. Now it seemed to him that he had come to a pause. He drew up his sofa to the window of his sitting-room and looked downward. Somehow or other, the depression against which he had struggled all the evening seemed only intensified by what he saw below. An early autumn had stripped bare the leaves from the scanty trees; the sky was gray and starless. Even the lights along the river front seemed to burn with a dull and uninspiring fire. He looked around him and his depression became an almost overmastering sensation. He hated the sight of his empty room, the phantom thoughts that would light upon his shoulder, the sofa upon which he was sitting alone, the memory of the things which he might have said to Ruth in the days when the opportunity was his. For a moment he even thought of Mr. Jarvis at the music-hall alone, the welcoming lights, the pleasant warmth, the music, the cheerful throngs of people. Better anything, he told himself, than this brooding! A sudden almost reckless impulse called him back again into the streets, only to pass away the same moment with the vision of Ruth's pale face by his side, her eyes alternately gazing down the lighted way and seeking his, her fingers grasping his hand. His head sank forward into his hands. He was alone! He sat up suddenly with a start. The inner door of the room had opened and was softly closed again. A familiar voice addressed him. "I find your habits, my young friend, somewhat erratic," Sabatini remarked. "Your supply of common necessaries, too, seems limited. I have been driven to explore, quite fruitlessly, the whole of your little domain, in the vain search for a match." He pointed to the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Arnold, who was a little dazed, rose and produced a box of matches. "But I don't understand how it is that you are here!" he exclaimed. "I thought that you were at Brighton. And how did you get in?" Sabatini seated himself comfortably at the end of the sofa and placed a cushion behind his head. "We came up from Brighton this afternoon," he explained, puffing contentedly at his cigarette. "I am now pronounced convalescent. Ruth, too, could throw away her stick any moment she wanted to, only I fancy that she thinks its use becoming." "But," Arnold persisted, "I don't understand how you got in! You know that I am glad to see you." "I got in with Ruth's key, of course," Sabatini replied. Arnold leaned against the back of the sofa. "I had forgotten," he said. "Of course, if I had known that you had been coming, I would have been here. The accountant brought in the result of our last six months' work this afternoon, and Mr. Jarvis insisted upon a little celebration. We had dinner together." Sabatini nodded. "So you have been successful," he remarked, thoughtfully. "You kept your feet along the narrow way and you have done well. I am glad. Sit down here by my side." Arnold sat down on the end of the sofa. The curtain was pulled up as far as it would go. Below them, the curving arc of lights stretched away to the dim distance. Sabatini followed them with his eyes, for a moment, as though he, too, found something inspiring in that lighted way. Then he turned to Arnold with a queer little twinkle in his eyes. "By the bye," he asked, "you haven't heard--Fenella hasn't told you of the last turn in fortune's wheel?" "I have seen little of Mrs. Weatherley lately," Arnold murmured. Sabatini leaned back in his place. His hollow eyes were lit now with laughter, his mouth twitched. The marks of his illness seemed almost to pass. "It is delicious," he declared. "Listen. You remember that one day when you dined with me I told you of my uncle the Cardinal?" "The uncle from whom you borrowed money?" Arnold remarked, dryly. "Precisely," Sabatini agreed; "I borrowed money from him! It was only a trifle but I chose my own methods. Heavens, but it is droll!" Sabatini began to laugh softly. His whole face now was alight with enjoyment. "Last month," he continued, "His Eminence died. He had fourteen nephews, three brothers, two sisters, and no end of nieces. To whom do you think he has left his entire fortune, my dear Arnold--three hundred thousand pounds they say it is?" "To you!" Arnold gasped. "To me, indeed," Sabatini assented. "I did not even go to the funeral. I read of his death in the newspapers and I shrugged my shoulders. It was nothing to me. Yet those fourteen nephews were left not so much as would buy their mourning clothes. This is the chief sentence in the will,--'_To the only one of my relatives whose method of seeking my favors has really appealed to me, I leave the whole of my fortune, without partition or reserve._'--And then my name. I was that one. Almost," Sabatini concluded, with a little sigh, "I am sorry that he is dead. I should have liked once more to have shaken him by the hand." Arnold was speechless. The realization of what it all meant was beginning to dawn upon him. Sabatini was wealthy--Ruth was a great heiress. Her treasure ship had come in, indeed--and his was passing him by. "I am glad," he said slowly, "glad for your sake and for Ruth's." Sabatini nodded. "My shadowy means," he remarked, "have kept me in comfort. Perhaps, even, they have been a trifle more than I have let people imagine. Still, this is all very different. Ruth and I are going to wander about the Riviera for a time. Afterwards, we are going to sail to Sabatini and patch up my old castle. I have some tenants there who certainly deserve a little consideration from me--old friends, who would sooner live without a roof over their heads than seek a new master. I shall grow vines again, my young friend, and make cheeses. You shall come from the illustrious firm of Samuel Weatherley & Company and be my most favored customer. But let me give you just a word of advice while I am in the humor. Buy our cheeses, if you will, but never touch our wine. Leave that for the peasants who make it. Somehow or other, they thrive,--they even become, at times, merry upon it,--but the Lord have mercy upon those others, not born upon the island of Sabatini, who raise it to their lips!" "I will leave the wine alone," Arnold promised. "But shan't I be able to say good-bye to Ruth?" Sabatini leaned towards him. His expression was once more grave, yet there was the dawn of a smile upon his sensitive lips. "You can say to her what you will," he murmured, "for she is here. She had a fancy to look at her old room. I was there with her when you arrived. I have a fancy now to give an order to my chauffeur. _A bientot!_" Arnold rose slowly to his feet. His heart was beginning to beat fiercely. He was looking across the room with straining eyes. It was not possible that clothes and health could make so great a difference as this! She was standing upon the threshold of her room. She was coming now slowly towards him, leaning ever so slightly upon her stick. Her cheeks were touched with pink, her eyes were lit with so soft and wonderful a brilliance that they shone like stars. He forgot her fashionable hat, the quiet elegance of her clothes. It was Ruth who came towards him--Ruth, radiantly beautiful, transformed--yet Ruth! He held out his arms and with a little sob she glided into them. Side by side they took their accustomed places upon the horse-hair sofa. Her head sank upon his shoulder, her hands clasped his, her eyes were wet with tears. A siren blew from the river. A little tug, with two barges lashed alongside, was coming valiantly along. The dark coil of water seemed suddenly agleam with quivering lights. "Our ships," she whispered, "together, dear!" [THE END] _ |
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