Part 22 (1/2)

Twice he opened 'is mouth to speak but couldn't, and then he made a odd sort o' choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in Bob Pretty's face.

A LOVE-KNOT

MR. NATHANIEL CLARK and Mrs. Bowman had just finished their third game of draughts. It had been a difficult game for Mr. Clark, the lady's mind having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pus.h.i.+ng an occasional piece of his own off the board that he had succeeded.

”A penny for your thoughts, Amelia,” he said, at last.

Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. ”They were far away,” she confessed.

Mr. Clark a.s.sumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this kind to the late Mr. Bowman were only too frequent. He was fortunate when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for successful imitation.

”I suppose,” said the widow, slowly-”I suppose I ought to tell you: I've had a letter.”

Mr. Clark's face relaxed.

”It took me back to the old scenes,” continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. ”I have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all about the first man I ever thought anything of-Charlie Tucker?”

Mr. Clark cleared his throat. ”You did,” he said, a trifle hoa.r.s.ely.

”More than once.”

”I've just had a letter from him,” said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. ”Fancy, after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my husband's death, and, by the way he writes-”

She broke off and drummed nervously on the table.

”He hasn't heard about me, you mean,” said Mr. Clark, after waiting to give her time to finish.

”How should he?” said the widow.

”If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other,” retorted Mr.

Clark. ”Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks' time you'll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won't write again.”

Mrs. Bowman sighed. ”I thought, after all these years, that he must be dead,” she said, slowly, ”or else married. But he says in his letter that he has kept single for my sake all these years.”

”Well, he'll be able to go on doing it,” said Mr. Clark; ”it'll come easy to him after so much practice.”

”He-he says in his letter that he is coming to see me,” said the widow, in a low voice, ”to-to-this evening.”

”Coming to see you?” repeated Mr. Clark, sharply. ”What for?”

”To talk over old times, he says,” was the reply. ”I expect he has altered a great deal; he was a fine-looking fellow-and so das.h.i.+ng. After I gave him up he didn't care what he did. The last I heard of him he had gone abroad.”

Mr. Clark muttered something under his breath, and, in a mechanical fas.h.i.+on, began to build little castles with the draughts. He was just about to add to an already swaying structure when a thundering rat-tat-tat at the door dispersed the draughts to the four corners of the room. The servant opened the door, and the next moment ushered in Mrs. Bowman's visitor.

A tall, good-looking man in a frock-coat, with a huge spray of mignonette in his b.u.t.ton-hole, met the critical gaze of Mr. Clark. He paused at the door and, striking an att.i.tude, p.r.o.nounced in tones of great amazement the Christian name of the lady of the house.

”Mr. Tucker!” said the widow, blus.h.i.+ng.

”The same girl,” said the visitor, looking round wildly, ”the same as the day she left me. Not a bit changed; not a hair different.”