Part 27 (1/2)

”Now,” he said to Eve one evening, when the first proof had been almost wept over, ”now, dearie, what author would you recommend to a man who has a natural likin' for reading, but owing to the circ.u.mstances of his life has had no opportunity of cultivatin' his taste?”

”Well, uncle, a good deal would depend upon his inclination--whether he liked poetry or fiction, or serious reading.”

”Of course, of course,” acceded Captain Bontnor, pressing the tobacco into his pipe with his thumb; ”I am taking that into consideration. There's all sorts to be had now, ain't there--poetry and fiction and novels? I am not sure that the style would matter much, so long--so long as the print was nice and clear.”

Eve duly gave her opinion without pressing the question too closely, and while she was out on her long walks Captain Bontnor laboriously cultivated his neglected taste. He sat in the window-seat with much gravity, and more than made up in application for the youthful quickness which he lacked. He resolutely refused to look up from his book when he heard the alternate thud and stump which announced the pa.s.sage down to the harbour of his particular crony, Mark Standon, whose other leg had been buried at sea. He kept the dictionary beside him, and when the writer used a word of sonorous ring and obscure meaning he gravely looked it out.

The first time that Mr. Standon saw his friend thus engaged he stood on the pavement and expressed his surprise with more force than elegance; whereupon Captain Bontnor went out and explained to him exactly how it stood. So marked was the old sailor's influence on the social affairs at Somarsh that there was a notable revival of literary taste and discussion at the corner of the Lifeboat House, where the local intellect a.s.sembled.

Captain Bontnor was engaged one day in the study of an author called d.i.c.kens, to whose works he had not yet found time to devote his full attention, when a strange footstep on the pavement made him look up.

It certainly was not Standon's halting gait, and a lack of iron nail certified to the fact that it was no Somarsh man. The captain looked over his spectacles and saw Cipriani de Lloseta studying the numbers on the doors as he came down the quiet little street.

The sight gave the old sailor rather a shock. He abandoned the study of Mr. d.i.c.kens and took off his spectacles. Then he scratched his head--always an ominous sign. His first instinct was to go and open the door; then he remembered that the new-comer was a n.o.bleman who lived in a palace, and that he himself was indirectly a gentleman, inasmuch as he lived in the same house as a lady--his niece. So he sat still and allowed the landlady to open the door.

When Cipriani de Lloseta was ushered into the tiny room he found the captain half-bowing on the hearthrug.

”Captain Bontnor,” he said, with all the charm of manner which was his, ”this is a pleasure.”

The captain shook hands, and with the rough hospitality of the cabin drew forward his own armchair, which the Count took at once.

”When last we met,” he said, ”I had the privilege of receiving you at my house in Barcelona--a poor dark place in a narrow street. Now here you have a sea-view.”

”But this is not my house,” said Captain Bontnor, feeling unaccountably at ease with this n.o.bleman. ”Malabar Cottage is farther up the hill. I've got all my bits of things up there.”

”Indeed. It would have given me pleasure to see them. I learnt from a mutual--friend, Mrs. Harrington, of your change of address.”

Captain Bontnor looked at him keenly; and who shall say that the rough old man did not appreciate the refined tact of his visitor?

”I've had losses,” he said.

The Count nodded shortly. He was drawing off his gloves.

”I do not know,” he said conversationally, ”if it has been your experience, but for myself I have found that reverses of fortune are not without some small consolation. They prove the friends.h.i.+p of one's friends.”

The captain reflected.

”Yes,” he said, ”you're right, Mr.--I mean Count--and--and brings the good out of women.”

”Women!” the Count repeated gravely. ”You refer to Miss Challoner-- I see signs of her presence in this room. Is she out?”

”Yes--I am afraid she is.” He glanced nervously at the clock. ”She is not likely to be in for an hour and more yet.”

”I am sorry,” said the Count; ”but also I am rather glad. I shall thus have an opportunity of asking your opinion upon one or two matters--between men of the world, you know.”

”I am afraid my opinion is not of much value, sir, except it's about schooners--I always sailed in schooners.”

The Count nodded gravely.

”In my country,” he said, ”we usually go in for brigs; they find them easier to handle. But you know Mallorca--you have seen for yourself.”