Part 25 (1/2)

His rugged hand shook as he drank the wine.

”Only,” he went on, after wiping his moustache vigorously with a red pocket-handkerchief--”only it was rum, dearie--rum, you know, for heavy weather. It puts heart into the men.”

His face suddenly clouded over again.

”And we've run into heavy weather, haven't we? Just the hand of G.o.d.”

”Finish the gla.s.s,” said Eve, and she stood over him while he drank the wine.

”And now,” she went on, ”listen to me. I have had a very important letter, which could hardly have come at a more opportune moment. In fact, I think we may call it also . . . what they say in a bill of lading.”

She opened the letter, as if about to read it aloud, and on glancing through she seemed to change her mind.

”It is from Mrs. Harrington,” she said. ”It is a very kind letter.”

She looked at her uncle, whose face had suddenly hardened. He seemed to be schooling himself to hear something unpleasant.

”Ay!” he muttered, ”ay! I suppose she'll get her way now. I suppose I can't hope to keep you now. She'll get you--she'll get you.”

”Then I think you are a very mean old man!” exclaimed Eve. ”I don't believe you are a sailor at all. You are what you call a land- lubber, if you think that I am the sort of person to accept your kindness when you are prosperous, and then--and then when heavy weather comes to go away and leave you.”

The old man smiled rather wanly, and fumbled with the red pocket- handkerchief.

”As it happens, Mrs. Harrington does not ask me to go and stay with her--she asks me--” She paused and laid her hand on his shoulder gently. ”She asks me--to accept money.”

Captain Bontnor sat upright.

”Ay-y-y,” he said, ”charity.”

”Yes,” said Eve quietly, ”charity; and I'm going to accept it.”

Captain Bontnor scratched his head. His manners were not, as has already been stated, remarkable for artificiality or superficial refinement. He screwed up his features as if he were swallowing something nasty.

”Read me the letter,” he said.

Eve opened the missive again, and looked at it.

”She puts it very nicely,” she said. ”She asks if you will permit me to accept a dress allowance from a rich woman who does not always spend her money discreetly.”

It must be admitted that Mrs. Harrington's nice way of putting it lost nothing by its transmission through Eve's lips.

Thus poor Charity creeps in wherever she can shelter. She is not proud. She does not ask to be accepted for her own sake; though Heaven knows she frequently is. She masquerades in any costume--she accepts the humiliation of any disguise. She is ready to be cast down before swine, or raised high before the eyes of fools. She is used as a tool or a stepping-stone--the humble handmaid of the tuft- hunter and the toady. She is dragged through the mire of the slums to the dwellings of the wealthy and idle. She is hounded up and down the world--the plaything of Fas.h.i.+on, the trap of the unwary, the washerwoman of the unclean who wish to try the paths of virtue-- for a change. And she is still Charity, and she lives strong and pure in herself. It has been decreed that we shall ever have the poor beside us, and so long shall we also possess those who live on them.

Charity begetteth charity, and it was for Charity's sake that Eve Challoner took the bitter bread to herself, and accepted Mrs.

Harrington's offer.