 Prologue of Tormelin's Time Checks. Mr. Peter Tormelin was sitting or rather lying in a steamer-chair on the first-class saloon-deck of the P&O ship Boomerang, which had not been many days as yet on the voyage home from Sydney. He had been trying to read, but it was a hot morning, and the curry of which he had partaken freely at breakfast had made him feel a little heavy and disinclined for mental exertion just then, particularly as Buckle's history of civilisation, the first volume of which he had brought up from the ship's library, is not exactly light literature at any time. He wanted distraction of some sort, but he could not summon up sufficient energy to rise and pace the deck, as his only acquaintance on board, a Mr. Perkins, was doing with a breezy vigor which Tormelin found himself feebly resenting. Another alternative was open to him, it is true. Not far away were other deck-chairs in which some of the lady-passengers were reading, writing, and chatting more or less languidly. There were not very many on board, for it was autumn, a time at which homeward-bound vessels are not apt to be crowded, but even in that small group there were one or two with whom it might have seemed possible to pass a little time in a pleasant and profitable manner. For instance there was that tall graceful girl in the navy-blue skirt and the striped cotton blouse confined at her slender waist by a leaven belt. Tormelin, it should be mentioned, was in the habit of noticing the details of feminine costume. She had regular features, gray eyes which lighted up whenever she spoke, and an expression of singular nobility and sweetness. Her fair hair was fastened up in loose, gleaming masses under her highly becoming straw hat. Peter watched her surreptitiously from time to time, from behind the third page of Buckle. She was attempting to read a novel, but her attention like his own wandered occasionally, and he even fancied that he surprised her now and then in the act of glancing at himself with a certain interest. Near her was another girl not quite so tall and darker, but scarcely less pleasing in appearance. She wore a cool-looking pink frock, and her luxuriant bronze tresses were set off by a simple white flannel cap. She held some embroidery in her listless fingers, but was principally occupied in gazing out to see with a wistful and almost melancholy expression. Her eyes were soft and brown, and her features picantly irregular, giving Peter, who considered himself no mean judge of female character, the impression of a highly emotional and enthusiastic temperament. He thought he saw signs that she also honoured him by her notice. Peter was a flat-headed little man, with weak eyes and flaxen hair, but even flat-headed little men may indulge these fancies at times without grossly deceiving themselves. He knew, as one does learn such things on board ship, that the name of the first young lady was Tyrell, and that she was the daughter of a judge who had been spending the long vacation in a voyage to recruit his health. Of the other he knew no more than that she was a Miss Davenport. At present, however, he had no personal acquaintance with either of them, and, in fact, as has already been said, knew nobody on board to speak to except the energetic Mr. Perkins, a cheery man with a large fund of general information, who was going home on some business connected with a banking house in Melbourne. And yet it is not difficult to make acquaintances on board ship, if a man cares to do so. Accident or design will provide opportunities in plenty, and two or three days at sea are equivalent to at least as many weeks on shore. And Peter being quite aware of these facts, and by no means indifferent to the society of the other sex, which indeed he considered more interesting than that of his own, it would seem that he must have had some strong reason for having kept studiously apart from the social life on board the Boomerang. He had a reason, and it was this, he was an engaged man and on his probation. A bachelor, still under thirty, of desultory habits which unfitted him to shine in any profession, he had a competency, that refuge of the incompetent, which made him independent. Some months previously he had had the good fortune to meet with a lady, somewhat his junior in years, but endowed with charms of mind and character which excited his admiration and reverence. He recognized that she supplied the qualities in which he felt himself deficient. He was weary of the rather purposeless life he had led. He wanted a wife who would regulate and organize his existence, and Miss Sophia Pinsney, with her decision and her thoroughness, was eminently the person to do it. So it was not long before he took courage and proposed to her. Miss Pinsney, though she had been highly educated and possessed a considerable fortune of her own, was by no means inclined to look unfavorably upon such a suitor. He might not be quite her intellectual equal, but he was anxious to improve his mind. He was amiable and amenable and altogether likely under careful guidance to prove an excellent husband. But she was prudent, and reason told her that the suddenness of Peter's passion was no guarantee of its enduring qualities. She had heard and seen too much of a rather Catholic susceptibility in his nature to feel it safe to incur so grave a risk as marriage, until she had certain proof that his attachment to her was robust enough to bear the severest test, and to that test she was determined to submit him. She consented to an engagement on one condition, that he was to take a long voyage. If he returned in the same mind she would be sufficiently sure of his constancy to marry him as soon as he wished. If he did not her misgivings would be amply justified. There was very little sentiment about Sophia. She took a practical and philosophical view of the marriage union as became a disciple of Ibsen. I like you, Peter, she told him frankly. You have many qualities that endear you to me, but I don't feel that I can depend upon you at present, and from what I know of you I fear it is only too probable that absence and the attractive society of a passenger ship may lead you to discover that you have mistaken the depths of the feeling you entertain for me. But look here, Sophia! he had expostulated. If you are afraid of that, why do you make me go? Because, she had replied with her admirable common sense, because if my fears should prove to be unhappily only too well founded, I shall at least have made the discovery before it is too late. And in spite of all his protests, Peter had to go. Sophia sought to reconcile him to this necessity by pointing out the advantages of travel. The enlarging effect it would have upon his mind, and the opportunities a long sea voyage afforded for regular and uninterrupted study on the lines she had already mapped out for him. But despite these consolations, he went away in low spirits. When the moment came for parting, even the strong-minded Sophia was seized with a kind of compunction. Something tells me, Peter, she said, that the ordeal will prove too much for you. In spite of your good resolutions, you will sooner or later be drawn into some flirtation, which will make you forget me. I know you so well, Peter. I wish you could show a little more confidence in me, he had answered in a wounded tone. Since I met you, Sophia, I have ceased to be the butterfly I was. But as you seem to doubt me, it may relieve your mind, if I promise faithfully, that while I am away from you, I will never, under any inducement, allow myself to overstep the limits of the most ordinary civility toward any woman with whom I may be brought in contact. I swear it, Sophia, are you satisfied now? Perhaps he had a secret provision that a time might come when this oath would prove a salutary restraint upon his straying fancy, and it certainly had an immediate and most reassuring effect upon Sophia. Tormelin had gone out to Australia, had seen something of the country during his stay in the colony, and was now, as we have seen, on his return, and during the whole time his oath to his great credit had been literally and faithfully kept. During the voyage out he had been too persistently unwell to be inclined to dally with sentiment. But in his subsequent wanderings he had avoided, or rather escaped, all intercourse with any colonial ladies who might, by any possibility, affect his allegiance to Sophia, whose image consequently still held undisputed possession of his heart. In case he should feel himself wavering at any time, he had been careful to provide himself with a talisman in the shape of a photograph, the mere sight of which would be instantly effectual. But somehow, since he had been on board the boomerang, the occasions on which he had been driven to refer to this photograph had been growing more and more frequent, while at the same time he had a tormenting consciousness that it took an increasingly longer time to work. He brought it out now, and studied it attentively. It was the likeness of a girl without any great pretensions to beauty, with dark hair rolled neatly back from a massive brow that shone with intellectuality, penetrating eyes whose keenness was generally tempered by folding glasses, a large, firm mouth, and a square chin, altogether the face of a young woman who would stand no trifling. He put it back respectfully in his pocket. But the impulse to go across and drop, in an accidental fashion, into a vacant seat near one of those two girls, was still unconquered. He was feeling so dull. He had got such a very little way into the history of civilization, a work which he was reading rather for Sophia's satisfaction than his own, and there was such a lot more of it. Might he not allow himself a brief holiday, and beguile the long weary morning with a little cheerful conversation? It was most unlikely, strict etiquette being by general consent suspended on board ship, that either young lady would resent a hazarded remark, at all events he could but try. But then his oath, his rash and voluntary oath to Sophia, what of that? He had not, it was true, debarred himself from ordinary civility. But could he be sure of keeping always within those bounds, if the acquaintance ship was once established? He had reasons for doubting this very seriously. And besides, had not Sophia more than hinted in her last letter that as a reward for his fidelity she might join the ship at Gibraltar with her mother, and so put an earlier end to his term of probation. He could not be too careful. After holding out so long it would be madness to relax his precautions now. No, he would resist these sirens, like a modern Ulysses, though in the latter's case the sirens were not actually on board, and even then the hero had to be lashed to the mast. But Tormelin felt confident, notwithstanding, that he would prove at least as obdurate as the wily Greek. He was not a strong-minded man, but he had one quality which is almost as valuable a safeguard against temptation, a strength of mind, namely, timidity. His love for his betrothed was chastened by a considerable dash of awe, and he was resolved not to compromise himself in her eyes just for the sake of a little temporary distraction. At this point of his deliberations he looked at his watch. It was close upon twelve, only one hour to be got through before Tiffin. Why an hour was nothing, he could surely contrive to kill it over Buckle. A little courage, a little concentration, and he would certainly attain to an interest in the laws which govern human actions. The ship's bells were just striking. He counted the strokes—one, two, three, four, five—and no more. There must be some mistake. It could not possibly be only half past ten. Why, it was hours since breakfast. Looking at your watch, eh? said his friend Perkins, as he reached Peter's chair for about the hundredth time. Ah! you're fast, I see. Haven't altered your watch yet. They've put the ship's clock back again this morning—nearly half an hour it was this time. It was rather less yesterday than the day before. We shall go on gaining so much extra time a day, I suppose, till we get to Jib. You don't mean to tell me that! exclaimed Peter with a half suppressed groan. If the time had seemed tedious and interminable enough before, how much more so was it now? How infinitely greater would the effort be to fix his thoughts resolutely on Buckle and ignore the very existence of his distracting neighbours, now that it was to be daily prolonged in this exasperating manner? You don't seem to appreciate the arrangement, remarked the manager, as he allowed himself to drop precautiously, for he was a bulky man, into a hammock chair beside Tormelin. Appreciate it! said Peter, with strong disgust. Aren't there enough half hours and confoundedly long ones, too, in the day as it is, without having extra ones forced on you like this, and giving it to us in the daytime, too? They might at least put the clock back at night when it wouldn't so much matter. I do think it's very bad management, I must say. His companion began a long explanation about the meridian, and sun's time, and ship's time, and Greenwich time, to which Peter gave but a very intermittent attention. So stupefied did he feel at this unwelcome discovery. It's a curious thing to think of, the other was saying thoughtfully, that a man by simply making a voyage like this should make a clear gain of several hours, which he would never have had at all if he had stayed at home. I would much rather be without them, said Peter. I find it quite difficult enough to spend the time as it is, and how on earth I can spend any more, I don't know. Why spend it then? asked his friend, quietly. What else am I to do with it? What else? See here, my friend. When you have an amount of spare cash that you've no immediate use for, you don't let it lie idle at home, do you? You pay it into your credit at a bank, and let it remain on deposit till you do want it, eh? Well then, why not treat your spare time as you would your spare cash? Do you see what I mean? Not altogether, confessed Peter considerably puzzled. It's simple enough, nowadays. For instance, the establishment I have the honour to be connected with, the Anglo-Australian Joint Stock Time Bank Limited, confines itself, as you are doubtless aware, almost entirely to that class of business. Ah! said Peter, no more enlightened than before. Does it indeed? Would you mind explaining what particular class of business it carries on? I don't quite understand. Bless my soul, sir! said the manager, rather irritably. You must be uncommonly ignorant of financial matters not to have heard of this before. However, I will try to make it clear to you. I daresay you have heard that time is money. Very well. All our operations are conducted on that principle. We are prepared to make advances on good security, of course, of time to almost any amount, and we are simply overwhelmed with applications for loans. Businessmen, as you may know, are perpetually pressed for time, and will consent to almost anything to obtain it. Our transactions in time, sir, are immense. Why, the amount of time passing through our books annually during the last ten years averages, ah, about sixty centuries. That's pretty well, I think, sir. He was so perfectly businesslike and serious that Peter almost forgot to see anything preposterous in what he said. It sounds magnificent, he said politely. Only, you see, I don't want to borrow any time myself. I've too much on my hands already. Just so, said the manager. But if you will kindly hear me out, I am coming to that. Lending time is only one side of our business. We are also ready to accept the charge of any spare time that customers may be willing to deposit with us, and with our experience and facilities, I need hardly say that we are able to employ it to the best advantage. Now, say, for example, that you wish to open an account with us. Well, we'll take these spare half hours of yours that are only an encumbrance to you at present, and if you choose to allow them to remain on deposit, they will carry interest at five per cent per month. That is, five minutes on every hour and three quarters, roughly, for each month until you withdraw them. In that way alone, by merely leaving your time with us for six months, you will gain, now let me see, over three additional hours in compound interest on your original capital of ten hours or so. And no previous notice required before withdrawal. Let me tell you, sir, you will not find many banks do business on such terms as that. No, said Peter, who could not follow all this arithmetic, so I should imagine, only I don't quite see, if you will pardon my saying so, what particular advantage I should gain if I did open an account of this sort. You don't, you surprise me, you really do. Here are you, with these additional hours lying idle on your hands. You didn't expect them, and don't want them. But how do you know that you may not be glad of them at some time or other? Just think how grateful you might be here after, if you could get back a single one of these half hours, which you find so tedious now. Half an hour on board a fine ship like this, splendid weather, bracing sea air, perfect rest, pleasant company, and so on, why you'd be willing to pay any money for it. Well, bank your extra time, and you can draw every individual hour in quarters, halves, or holes, when you please and as you please. That's the advantage of it, sir. I think I see, said Peter. Only how am I to make the deposit in the first instance? That's easily arranged. The captain can't compel you to accept the time now by merely putting back the hands of the clock, can he? So all you have to do is to abstain from altering your watch so long as you are on board, and to fill up a little form, after which I shall be happy to supply you with a book of time checks, which you can fill up and present whenever you wish to spend a given number of minutes in the pleasantest possible of ways. But where am I to present these checks? inquired Peter. Oh! said the manager, there will be no difficulty whatever about that. Any clock will cash it for you, provided, of course, that it hasn't stopped. You merely have to slip your check underneath or behind it, and you will at once be paid whatever amount of time the check is drawn for. I can show you one of our forms, if you like. Here he brought out a bulky leather case, from which he extracted a printed document, which he handed to Peter. Peter, however, being naturally cautious, felt a hesitation which he scarcely liked to confess. You see, he said, the fact is, I should like to know first, I've never been engaged in a transaction of this kind before, and, well, what I mean is, do I incur any risk of a supernatural character? It isn't like that business of Faust, say, don't you know? The manager took back the paper with an abruptness which showed that his temper was ruffled by this suspicion. My good sir! he said, with a short, offended laugh. Don't, on any account, imagine that I care two pins whether you become a depositor or not. I dare say our house will continue to exist without your account. As for liability ours is a limited concern, and besides, a deposit would not constitute you a shareholder. If you meant anything more, well, I have still to learn that there's anything diabolical about me, sir. I simply thought I was doing you a good turn by making the suggestion, and besides, as a businessman I never neglect any opportunity, however small, but it's entirely as you please, I'm sure. There was nothing in the least demonic or even in his annoyance, and Peter was moved to contrition and apology. I really beg your pardon, he said. I do hope I haven't offended you, and, if you will allow me, I shall consider it a personal favour to be allowed to open an account with your bank. It would certainly be a great convenience to draw some of this superfluous time at some future day, instead of wasting it now. Where do I sign the form? The manager was appeased, and produced the form once more, indicating the place for the signature and even providing a stylograph pen for the purpose. It was still somewhat of a relief to Peter's mind to find that the ink it contained was of the ordinary black hue. And now about checks, said his friend, after the signature had been obtained. How many do you think you would require? I should say that, as the deposit is rather small, you will find fifty more than sufficient. We shall debit you with fifty seconds to cover the check-book, and we always recommend bearer checks, as on the whole, more convenient. Peter said he would have fifty bearer checks, and was accordingly given an oblong grey-green book, which, except that it was a trifle smaller, was in no wise different outwardly from an ordinary check-book. Still, his curiosity was not completely satisfied. There is just one question more, he said. When I draw this time, where will it be spent? Why, naturally on board this ship, explained the manager, you see that the time you will get must necessarily be the extra time to which you are entitled by virtue of your passage, and which you would have spent, as it accrued, if you had not chosen to deposit it with us. By the way, when you are filling up checks, we much prefer not to be called upon to honour drafts for less than fifteen minutes, as much more as you like, but not less. Well, then, we may consider that settled. I am extremely glad to have had the opportunity of obliging you, and I think I can promise you that you will have no reason to repent of having made such a use of your time. I wish you good-bye for the Presencer. The manager resumed his hygienic tramp round the deck, leaving Peter with the check-book in his hand. He was no longer surprised. Now that he was more familiar with the idea, it seemed a perfectly natural and matter-of-fact arrangement. He only wondered that he had never thought of so obvious a plan before. And it was an immense relief to know that he had got rid of his extra hours for the present at all events, and that he could now postpone them to a period at which they would be a boon rather than a burden. And very soon he put the check-book away and forgot all about it. End of Prologue Chapter 1 of Turmaline's Time Checks This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Turmaline's Time Checks, by Thomas Anstigothry. Chapter 1 Turmaline's First Check and How He Took It Peter Turmaline's probation was at an end, and, what was more, he had come through the ordeal triumphantly. How he managed this, he scarcely knew. No doubt he was aided by the consciousness that the extra hours which he felt himself most liable to miss-spent had been placed beyond his disposal. At all events, when he met Sophia again, he had been able to convince her that her doubts of his constancy, even under the most trying conditions, were entirely undeserved. Now he was receiving his recompense. His engagement to Sophia was no longer conditional, but a recognized and irrevocable fact. It is superfluous to say that he was happy. Sophia had set herself to repair the deficiencies in his education and culture. She took him to scientific lectures and classical concerts, and made him read standard authors without skipping. He felt himself daily acquiring balance and seriousness, and an accurate habit of thought, and all the other qualities which Sophia wished him to cultivate. Still, there were moments when he felt the need of halting and recovering his wind, so to speak, in the steep and toilsome climb to her superior mental level, times when he felt that his overtaxed brain absolutely required relaxation of some sort. He felt this particularly one dreary morning late in November as he sat in his London chambers, staring with lackluster eyes at the letter he had that day received from his betrothed. For although they met nearly every day, she never allowed one to pass without a letter. No font and foolish effusion, be it understood, but a kind of epistolary examination paper to test the progress he was making. This one contained some searching questions on Buckle's history of civilization, 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 poses devised by Sophia's unwarying care. The day before he had had search questions in English poetry from Chaucer to Mr. Louis 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-checks? If he could only get away, if but for a quarter of an hour, away from those sombre rooms with their outlook on dingy house-stops 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 checkbook, which did not take him long, though when he had found it something made him pause before filling up a check. What if he hadn't been made a fool of, if the Anglo-Australian time-check bank never existed or had suspended payment? But that was easily settled by presenting a check. 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 check and slipped it behind the frivolous and rather incorrect little ormalu clock upon his chimney-piece. 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 the 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 recognized Miss Tyrell. Yes, I forgive you, Mr. Tyrell, 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 Tyrell'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, that Checks had been wrongly numbered perhaps, or else they were honored 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 threats 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 if what you suspect should prove to be really true. Why, then, Mr. Tyrell, 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'll 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, Hedy. He thought much bewildered. For, as he had no story belonging to him of that character, he was afraid he must have evented 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 cause, 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 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 said I had, thought Peter, she'll ask me what it was. I will be as frank as possible, Miss Tyrell, he replied. I had no other reason. What other reason could I have had? I have 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'm 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 check 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 fell in agreeable shock. Had he really been fortunate enough to distinguish himself by rescuing the judge's fair daughter from some deadly peril, had looked very like it. He'd 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 he did it, she said. I never quite understood. Peter again took refuge in a discreet vagueness. Oh, he replied modestly. There is not much to tell. I saw the, um, 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 up the rigging, didn't you? she asked. So it was the judge he had saved, not his daughter. Peter felt a natural disappointment, but he saw the state of the case now. A powerful judicial intellect overstrained, melancholia, suicidal impulses. It was all very sad, but happily he had succeeded in saving this man to his country. I ventured to detain him, he said, considerably, seeing that he was, um, rather excited. But weren't you afraid he would bite you? No, said Peter, pained at this revelation of the judge's condition. That possibility did not occur to me. In fact, I am sure that, um, though the strongest intellects are occasionally subject to attacks of this sort, he would never so far forget himself as to, um, bite a complete stranger. Ah, she said, you don't know what a savage old creature he can be sometimes. He never ought to be let loose. I'm sure he's dangerous. Oh, but think, Miss Tyrell, remonstrated Peter, unmistakably shocked at this unfilial attitude toward a distinguished parent. If he was, um, dangerous, he would not be upon the bench now, surely. She glanced over her shoulder with evident apprehension. How you frightened me, she said. I thought he was really there. But I hope he'll shut him up in future, so that he won't be able to do any more mischief. You didn't tell me how you got hold of him. Was it by his chain or his tail? Peter did not know, and, besides, it was as difficult for him to picture himself in the act of seizing a hypochondriacal judge by his watch chain or coattail, as it was for him to comprehend the utter want of feeling that could prompt such a question from the sufferer's own daughter. I hope, he said, with the gravity which he intended as a rebuke. I hope I treated him with all the respect and consideration possible under the, um, circumstances. I'm sorry that that remark appears to amuse you. For Miss Tarrell was actually laughing with a merriment in which there was nothing forced. How could I help it? she said as soon as she could speak. It is too funny to hear you talking of being regretful and considerate to a horrid monkey. A monkey, he repeated involuntarily. So it was a monkey that was under restraint, and not a judge of Her Majesty's supreme court of judicature. A discovery which left him as much in the dark as to what particular service he had rendered as ever, and made him tremble to think what he might have said. But apparently, by singular good fortune, he had not committed himself beyond recovery, for Miss Tarrell only said, I thought you were speaking of the monkey, the little wretch that came up behind Papa, and snatched away all his notes, the notes he had made for the great case he tried last term, and has to deliver judgment upon when the courts sit again. Surely he told you how important they were, and how awkward it would have been if the monkey had escaped with them, and torn them into pieces, or dropped them into the sea, as he probably would have done but for you. Oh, ah, yes, said Peter, feeling slightly crestfallen, for he had hoped he had performed a more dashing deed than catching a loose monkey. I believe your father, Sir John, he hazarded. Sir William, of course, thank you, did mention the fact, but it really was such a trifling thing to do. Papa didn't think so, she said. He declares he can never be grateful enough to you. And whatever it was, she added softly and even shyly. I, at least, can never think lightly of a service which has made us what we are to one another. What they were to one another? And what was that? A dreadful uncertainty seized upon Peter. Was it possible that, in some way he did not understand, he was engaged to this very charming girl, who was almost a stranger to him? The mere idea froze his blood. For if that was so, how did it affect his position towards Sophia? At all hazards he must know the worst at once. Tell me, he said, with trembling accents. I know you have told me already, but tell me once more, precisely what we are to one another at present. It would be so much more satisfactory to my mind, he added, in a deprecatory tone, to have that clearly understood. I thought I'd made it quite clear already, she said, with the least suspicion of coldness, that we could be nothing more to one another than friends. The relief was almost too much for him. What a dear, good, sensible girl she was, how perfectly she appreciated the effects. Friends, he cried, is that all? Do you really mean we're nothing more than friends? He caught her hand in the fervour of his gratitude, and she allowed it to remain in his grasp, which, in the altered state of things, he found rather pleasant than otherwise. Ah, she murmured, don't ask me for more than I have said, more than I can ever say, perhaps. Let us be content with the remaining friends, dear friends if you like, but no more. I will, said Peter promptly, I will be content, dear friends by all means, but no more. No, she ascended. Unless a time should come when— Yes, said Peter, encouragingly, as she hesitated. You were about to say a time when— Her lips moved, a faint flush stole into her cheeks. She was about to complete her sentence. When her hands seemed to melt away in his own, and he stood, grasping the empty air by his own mental piece. The upper deck, the heaving boughs, the blue sea-board, Miss Tyrell herself, all had vanished, and in their stead were the familiar surroundings of his chamber, the grimy London house-fronts, and Sophia's list of questions lying still unanswered upon his writing-table. His fifteen minutes had come to an end, the check was nowhere to be seen. The minute-hand of his clock had not moved since he last saw it, but this last circumstance, as he saw in a reflection, was only natural, for otherwise the time-deposit would have conferred no real advantage, as he would never have regained the hours he had temporarily foregone. For some time Peter sat perfectly still, with his head between his hands, occupied in a mental review of this his initial experience of the checkbook system. It was as different as possible from the spell of perfect rest he had anticipated, but had it been unpleasant on that account, in spite of an element of mystification at starting, which was inevitable, he was obliged to admit to himself that he had enjoyed this little adventure more than perhaps he should have done. With all his attachment to Sophia, he could hardly be insensible to the privilege of suddenly finding himself the friend, and more than that, the dear friend of so delightful a girl as this Miss Tyrell. There was a strange charm, a peculiar and quite platonic tenderness about an intimacy of this peculiar and unprecedented nature, which increased at every fresh recollection of it. It increased so rapidly indeed, that almost unconsciously he drew the checkbook toward him, and began to fill up another check with a view to an immediate return to the boomerang. But when he had torn the check-out, he hesitated. It was all quite harmless, the most severe moralist could not convict him of even the most shadowy infidelity towards his fiancée, if he chose to go back and follow up a purely retrospective episode like this, an episode which interested and fascinated him so strongly. Only, what would Sophia say to it? Instinctively, he felt that the situation, innocent as it was, would fail to commend itself to her. He had no intention of informing her, it was true, but he knew that he was a poor dissimilar. He might easily betray himself in some unguarded moment, and then—now it was vexing, no doubt—but upon the whole it was wiser and better to renounce those additional hours on board the boomerang altogether, to allow this past that never had, but only might have been, to remain unsummoned and unknown forever. Otherwise, who could tell that by gradual assaults even such an affection as he had for Sophia might not be eventually undermined? But this fear, as he saw the next moment, was almost too extravagant to be seriously taken into account. He felt nothing and never could feel anything but warm and sincere friendship from Miss Tyrell, and it was satisfactory to know that she was in no danger of mistaking his sentiments. Still, of course, there was always a certain risk, particularly when he was necessarily in ignorance of all that had preceded and followed the only colloquie they had had as yet. At last he decided upon a compromise. He would not cash that second check for the present at all events. He would reserve it for an emergency, and only use it if he was absolutely driven to do so as a mental tonic. Perhaps Sophia would not compel him to such a necessity again. He hoped. At least, he thought she would not. So he put the unpresented check in an inner pocket and set to work with desperate energy at his examination paper. Although his recent change must have proved less stimulating to his jaded faculties than he had hoped, since Sophia, after reading his answers, made the cutting remark that she scarcely knew which he had more completely failed to apprehend, the purpose of his author or that of the very simple questions she had set him. Peter could not help thinking, rather ruefully, that Miss Tyrell would never have been capable of such severity as that. But then Miss Tyrell was not his fiancée, only a very dear friend whom we would, most probably, never meet again. End of chapter one. Chapter two of Turmaline's Time Checks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Turmaline's Time Checks, by Thomas Ansti Guthrie. Chapter two. The second check. The knowledge that one has a remedy within reach is often as effectual as the remedy itself, if not more so, which may account for the fact that, although a considerable number of weeks had elapsed since Peter Turmaline had drawn his second check on the Anglo-Australian joint-stock time bank, that check still remained unpresented. The day fixed for his wedding with Sophia was drawing near. The flat in the Merrillbone Road, which was to be the scene of their joint felicity, had to be furnished, and this occupied most of his time. Sophia took the entire business upon herself, for she had scientific theories on the subject of decoration and colour harmonies which Peter could only accept with admiring awe. But nevertheless, she required him to be constantly at hand, so that she could consult him, after her own mind had been irrevocably made up. One February afternoon he was wondering rather disconsolidately about the labyrinthine passages of one of the monster upholstery establishments in the Tottenham Court Road, his chief object being to evade the curtsies of the numerous assistants as they anxiously inquired what they might have the pleasure of showing him. He and Sophia had been there since midday, and she had said in judgment upon carpets which were brought out, plunging like unbroken colts, by panting foremen, and unrolled before her in a blinding riot of colour. Peter had only to express the mildest commendation of any carpet to seal that carpet's doom instantly, so that he soon abstained from personal interference. Now Sophia was in the ironmongerate department, choosing kitchen utensils, and his opinion being naturally of no value on such matters, he was free to roam wherever he pleased within the limits of the building. He felt tired and rather faint, for he had had no lunch, and presently he came to a series of showrooms fitted up as rooms in various styles. There was one inviting-looking interior with an elaborate chimney-piece which had cozy cushioned nooks on either side of the fireplace, and into one of these corners he sank with heartfelt gratitude, for it was a comfortable seat, and he had not sat down for hours. But as his weariness wore away, he felt the want of something to occupy his mind, and searched in his pockets to see if he had any letters there. Even notes of congratulation upon his approaching marriage would be better than nothing in his present reduced condition, but he had left all his correspondence at his chambers. The only document he came upon was the identical time-check he had drawn long ago. It was creased and rumpled, but nonetheless negationable, if he could find a clock. And on the built-up chimney-piece there was a clock, a small fence of fur surmounted by a Japanese monster in peacock blue. Moreover, by some chance, this clock was actually going. He could hear it ticking as he sat there. Should he present his check or not? He was feeling a little aggrieved at Sophia's treatment of him. She had snubbed him so unmercifully over the carpets. It was pleasant to think that, if he chose, he could transport himself that very instant to the society of a sweet and appreciative companion, from whom snubbing was the last thing to be apprehended. Yes, Sophia's treatment quite justified him in making an exception to the rule he had laid down for himself. He would present that check, and he rose softly from his seat and pushed the check under the little time-piece. As before, his draft was honored immediately. He found himself on a steamer chair in a sheltered passage between two of the deck cabins. It was night, and he could not clearly distinguish any objects around him for some little time, owing to the darkness. But from a glimmer of white drapery that was faintly visible close by, he easily inferred that there was another chair adjoining his, which could only be occupied by Miss Tyrell. He could just hear the ship's band playing a waltz at the further end of the ship. It was one of the evenings when there had been dancing, and he and Miss Tyrell were sitting out together. All this he realized instantly, and not without a thrill of interest and expectation, which, however, the first words she uttered were sufficient to reduce to the most prosaic perplexity. What have I said? she was moaning, in a voice hardly recognizable from emotion, and a fleecy rap in which her face was muffled. Oh, what have I said? Peter was naturally powerless to afford her any information on this point, even if she really required it. He made a rapid mental note to the effect that their intimacy had evidently made great progress since our last interview. I'm afraid, he said, deciding that Candle was his only cause. I can't exactly tell you what you did say, for, as a matter of fact, I didn't quite catch it. Ah, you say that to spare me, she murmured. You must have heard, but promise me you'll forget it? Willingly, said Peter, the greatest readiness to oblige, I will consider it forgotten. If I could but hope that, she said. And yet, she added recklessly, why should I care what I say? To be sure, a great turbulent at random, why should you, you know? You must have seen from the first that I was very far from being happy. I must confess, said Peter, with the air of a man whom nothing escaped, that I did observe that. And you were right. Was it unnatural that I should be nothing but grateful to the chance which first brought us together? Not at all, said Peter, delighted to feel himself on solid ground again. Indeed, if I may speak for myself, I have even greater reason to feel grateful to that monkey. To what monkey, she exclaimed? Why, naturally, my dear Miss Tyrell, to the animal which was the unconscious instrument in making us acquainted? You surely cannot have forgotten already that it was a monkey. She half rose with an impetuous movement, the mantilla fell from her face, and even in the faint starlight he could perceive that, beautiful as that face undoubtedly was, it was certainly not the face of Miss Tyrell. You seem to have forgotten a great deal, she retorted with a suppressed sob in her voice. Or you would at least remember that my name is Devonport. Why, you should choose to call me Miss Tyrell, whom I don't even know by sight, I can't conceive. Here was a discovery, and a startling one. It appeared that he had not merely one, but two dear friends on board this P&O steamer, and the second seemed, if possible, even dearer than the first. He must have made the very most of those extra hours. There was one comfort, however. Miss Devonport did not, contrary to his impression, know Miss Tyrell, so that they need not necessarily clash. Still, it was undeniably awkward. He had to get out of his mistake as well as he could, which was butlainly. I of course, he protested. I know you are Miss Devonport, most stupid of me to address you as Miss Tyrell. The only explanation I can offer is that before I had the pleasure of speaking to you, I wasn't the impression that your proper name was Tyrell, and so it slipped out again just then from habit. This, though the literal, if not the moral, truth, did not seem to satisfy her entirely. That may be so, she said, curtly. Still, it does not explain why you should address me as Miss anybody after asking and receiving permission only last night to call me by my Christian name. Obviously, their relations were even closer than he had imagined. He had no idea they had got as far as Christian names already, any more than he had of what hers might happen to be. There was a painful want of method in the manner this time bank conducted its business, as he could not help remarking to himself. However, Peter, perhaps from the very timidity in his character, developed unexpected addressness in a situation of some difficulty. So you did, he said. You allowed me to call you by your Christian name, but I value such a privilege too highly to use it indiscriminately. You are very strange tonight, she said, with a plaintive and almost childish quiver of the lip. First you call me Miss Tyrell, and then Miss Devonport, and then you will have it that we were introduced by a monkey. As if I should ever allow a monkey to introduce anybody to me. Is saving a girl's life such an ordinary event with you that you forget all about such a trifle? This last sentence compensated Peter for all that had gone before. Here was a person whose life he really had saved, and his heart warmed to her from that moment. Rescuing a girl from imminent bodily peril was a more heroic achievement than capturing the most mischievous monkeys, and besides he felt it was far more in his style. So it was in his best manner he replied to her question. It would be strange indeed, he said reproachfully, if I could ever forget that I was the humble means of preserving you from—from a watery grave. He risked the epithet, concluding that on a voyage it could hardly be any other description of grave, and she did not challenge it, so he continued. A watery grave. But I had hoped you would appreciate in the motive which restrained me from—I'm seeming to dwell upon such a circumstance. This appeal, unprincipled as it was, subdued her instantly. Oh, forgive me, she said, putting out her hand with the prettiest penitence. I might have known you better than that. I didn't mean it. Please say you forgive me, and—and call me moored again. Relief at being supplied with a missing clue made Peter reckless. Indeed, it is to be feared that the demoralisation had already set in. He took the hand she gave him, and it did not occur to him to let it go immediately. Moored then, he said, obediently. I forgive you, moored. It was a prettier name to pronounce than Sophia. How curious it is, she was saying, dreamily, as she nestled comfortably in a chair beside him. That, up to the very moment when you rushed forward that day, I scarcely gave your existence a thought. And now? How little we ever know what is going to happen to us, do we? Or what has happened, for that matter, he thought. This time he would not commit himself to details until he could learn more about the precise nature of his dauntless act, which he had once proceeded to do. I should very much like to know, he suggested, what your sensations were at that critical moment. My sensations? I hardly know, she said. I remember leaning over the— Bulwarks, is it? Peter said it was Bulwarks. The Bulwarks, watching a sailor in a little balcony below, who was doing something with a long line. Heaving the lead, said Peter. So he was. Go on. He was intensely excited. It was all plain enough. She had lost her balance, and fallen overboard. He had plunged in, and gallantly kept her above water till help arrived. He had always known he was capable of this sort of thing. Now it proved it. When all at once, she continued, I felt myself roughly dragged back by somebody. That was you. I was rather angry for the moment, for it did seem quite a liberty for a total stranger to take. When, at very instant, I saw the line with a great heavy lump of lead at the end of it, rolled round exactly where my head had been, and then I knew that I owed my life to your presence of mind. Peter was more than disappointed. He was positively disgusted at this exceedingly tame conclusion. It did seem hard that, even under conditions when any act of daring might have been possible to him, he could do nothing more brilliant than this. It was really worse than the monkey business. I'm afraid you make too much of the very little I did, he said. Do I? Perhaps that is because, if you had not done it, we should never come to know one another as we do. So far it was a very one-sided sort of knowledge, Peter thought. And yet, she added, with a long-drawn sigh, I sometimes think that we should both be happier if we never had known one another. If you'd stood aside, and the lead had struck me, and I had died. No, no, Sir Peter, unfailingly alarmed at this morbid reflection. You mustn't take such a gloomy view of it as all that, you know. Why not, she said, in a sombre tone. It is gloomy. How gloomy I know better than you. She might well do that, thought Turmaline. Why did I not see that I was slowly, imperceptibly drifting, drifting? Well, said Peter, with a levity he was far from feeling. If the drifting was imperceptible, you naturally wouldn't see it, you know. You might have spared a joke at such a time as this, she cried, indignantly. I wasn't aware there was a close time for jokes, he said humbly. Not that it was much of a joke. Indeed it was not, she replied. But, oh Peter, now we have both drifted. Have we, he exclaimed, blankly? I mean, haven't we? I was so blind, so wilfully, foolishly blind, I told myself we were friends. Surely we are, he said, retaking possession of her hand. He had entirely forgotten Sophia in the iron-mongery department at Dotom Court Road. I—I understood we were on that footing. No, she said. Let us have no subterfuges any more. We must look fact in the face. After what we've both said to-night, we can no longer deceive ourselves by words. Peter, she broke off suddenly. I'm going to ask you a question, and on your answer, my fate, and yours too, perhaps, will depend. Tell me truthfully. Her voice failed her for the moment, as she bent over toward him, and clutched his arm tightly in her excitement. Her eyes shunned with a wild, intense eagerness for his reply. Would you? she repeated. Would you have the bottle-jack all brass or Japan'd? The brass ones are a shilling maul. Peter gave a violent start, for the voice in which this most incongruous and irrelevant question was put was that of Sophia. Miss Devonport, with her hysterical appeal, the steamer-chairs and the starlight all had fled, and he stood, supporting himself limply, by the arm of the chimney-nuke in the upholsterous showroom, staring at Sophia, who stood there, sedate and practical, inviting his attention to a couple of bottle-jacks which an assistant was displaying with an obsequious smile. The transition was rather an abrupt one. Oh, I think the brass one is very nice, he stammered feebly enough. And that settles it, remarked Sophia. We'll take the Japan'd one, please, she said to the assistant. Aren't you feeling well, Peter dear? she asked presently, in an undertone. You look so odd. Quite well, he said. I, um, was thinking of something else for the moment, and you startled me. That's all. You had such a faraway expression in your eyes, such a fear, and you did jump so when I spoke to you. You should really try to conquer that tendency to let yourself wander, Peter. I will, my love, he said, and he meant it, for he had let himself wander farther than he quite intended. Please visit Liberfox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Turmaline's Time-Checks, by Thomas and Steve Guthrie, Chapter 3. The Third Check As the reader may imagine, this second experience had an effect upon Peter that was rather deterrent than encouraging. It was a painful piece of self-revelation to find that had he chosen to avail himself of the extra hours on board the boomerang as they occurred, he would have so employed them as to place himself in relations of considerable ambiguity toward two distinct young ladies. How far he was committed to either, or both, he could not tell, but he had an easy suspicion that neither of them would have been quite so emotional had he conducted himself with the same prudence that had marked his behaviour throughout the time which he was able to account for, and yet his conscience acquitted him of any actual default. If he had ever really had any passages at all approaching the sentimental with either Miss Tyrell or Miss Devonport, his mind could hardly be so utterly blank on the subject as it certainly was. No, at the worst his failings were only potential precadillos, the kind of weaknesses he might have given way to if he had not wisely postponed the hours in which the occasions were afforded. He had had a warning, a practical moral lesson which had merely arrived, as such things often do, rather after date. But so far as it was possible to profit by it he would, at least he would abstain from making any further inroads upon the balance of extra time which still remained to his credit at the bank. He would draw no further checks, he would return to that P&O steamer no more. For an engaged man whose wedding day was approaching by leaps and bounds, it was, however innocent, too disturbing and exciting a form of distraction to be quite safely indulged in. The resolution cost him something, nevertheless. Peter was not a man who had hitherto been spoiled by feminine adoration. Sophia was fond of him, but she never affected to place him upon any sort of pinnacle. On the contrary, she looked down upon him, protectingly and indulgently, from a moral and intellectual pedestal of her own. He had not objected to this. In fact, he rather liked it, but it was less gratifying and stimulating to his self-esteem and the romantic and idealizing sentiments which he had seemingly inspired into exceedingly bewitching young persons with whom he felt so much in sympathy. It was an agreeable return from the bread and butter of engaged life to the petit four of semi-flirtation. After all, Peter was but human, and a man is seldom esteemed for being otherwise. He could not help a natural regret at having to abandon experiences which, judging from the fragmentary samples he had obtained, promised so much and such varied interest. That the interest was not consecutive, only made it the more amusing. It was a living puzzle picture, the pieces of which he could fit together as he received them. It was tantalizing to look at his check-book and feel that upon its leaves the rest of the story was written, but that he must never seek to decipher it. It became so tantalizing that he locked the check-book up at last. But already some of the edge had worn off his resolution, and he began to see only the more seductive side of the interviews which at the time had not been free from difficulty and embarrassment. Having put himself beyond the reach of temptation, he naturally began to cast about for some excuse for again exposing himself to it. It was the eve of his wedding day. He was in his chambers for the last time and alone, for he would not see Sophia again until he met her in bridal array at the church door, and he had no bachelor friends whom he cared to invite to help him to keep up his spirits. Peter was horribly restless and nervous. He needed a sedative of some kind, and even trying on his wedding garments failed to soothe him, as he felt almost certain there was a wrinkle between the shoulders, and it was too late to have it altered. The idea of one more visit to the Boomerang, one more interview, the last with one or other of his amiable and fascinating friends, it did not matter very much which, presented itself in a more and more attractive light. If it did nothing else it would provide him with something to think about for the rest of the evening. Was it curches? Was it even right to drop his friends without the slightest apology or explanation? Or did he not, as a gentleman and a man of honour, to go back and bid them good-bye? Peter, after carefully considering the point, discovered that it was clearly his duty to perform this trifling act of civility. As soon as he had settled that, he got out his check-book from the dispatch box in which he had placed it for his own security, and, sitting down just as he was, drew another fifteen minutes, and cashed them, like the first, at the armoured clock. This time he found himself sitting on a cushioned bench in the music-room of the Boomerang. It was shortly after sunset, as he could tell from the bar of dusky crimson against the violet sea, which, framed in the port's opposite, rose and sank with each roll of the ship. There was a swell on, and she rolled more than he could have wished. As he expected, he was not alone. But, as he had not expected, his companion was neither Miss Tyrell, nor Miss Davenport, but a grim and portly matron, who was eyeing him with a look of strong disfavour, which made Peter wish he had not come. What, he wondered, was he in for now? His uneasiness was increased as he glanced down upon his trousers, which, being new and of a delicate lavender tint, reminded him that in his impatience he had come away in his wedding garments. He feared that he must present rather an odd appearance on board ship in this festival attire. But there he would have to stay for the next quarter of an hour, and he must make the best of it. I repeat, Mr. Tormelin, said the matron, you are doubtless not unprepared for the fact that I have requested a few minutes' private conversation with you. Pardon me, said Peter, quaking already at this alarming opening, but I am very much unprepared. Surely, he thought, this could not be another, dear friend. No, that was too absurd. He must have drawn a line somewhere. Then permit me to enlighten you, she said, raspingly. I sent for you at a time when we are least likely to be interrupted, to demand an explanation from you upon a very delicate and painful matter which has recently come to my knowledge. Oh! said Peter, and nothing more. He guessed her purpose at once. She was going to ask him his intentions with regard to her daughter. He could have wished for some indication as to whether she was Lady Tyrell or Mrs. Devonport. But, as he had none at present, oh! seemed the safest remark to make. Life on board a large passenger ship, Mr. Turmaline, she went on to observe, though relaxed in some respects, is still not without decencies which a gentleman is bound to respect. Quite so, said Peter, unable to discover the bearings which lay in the application of this particular observation. You say quite so, but what has your behaviour been, sir? That, said Peter, is exactly what I should like to know myself. A true gentleman would have considered the responsibility he incurred by giving currency to idle and malicious gossip. His apprehensions were correct, then. It was one of the young ladies' mothers. But which? I can only assure you, madam, he began, that if unhappily I have been the means of furnishing gossip, it has been entirely unintentional. She seemed so much mollified by this that he proceeded with more confidence, as to anything I may have said to your daughter, when she almost bounded from her seat with fury. My daughter, sir, do you mean to sit there and tell me that you had the audacity to so much as hint of such a thing to my daughter of all people? So, so much depends on who your daughter is, said Peter, completely losing his head. You dared to strike this cruel and unmanly blow at the self-respect of a sensitive girl, to poison her defenceless ears with your false, dastardly insinuations, and you can actually admit it? I don't know whether I can admit it, or not yet, he replied, and you do put things so very strongly. It is like this. If you are referring to any conversation I may have had with Miss Tyrell, Miss Tyrell, you have told her too, exclaimed this terrible old matron, thereby demonstrating that, at least, she was not Lady Tyrell. I should have said Miss Devonport, said Peter, correcting himself precipitately. Miss Devonport as well, upon my word, and pray, sir, may I ask how many other ladies on board this ship are in possession of your amiable confidences? He raised his hands in utter despair. I can't say, he groaned. I don't really know what I may have said, or whom I may have said it to. I seem to have done so much of my spare time, but I never meant anything. It may be so, she said. Indeed, you hardly seem to be accountable for your actions, or you would not appear in such a ridiculous costume as that, with a sprig of orange blossom in your buttonhole and a high hat, too. I quite feel, said Peter, blushing, that such a costume must strike you as inappropriate, but I happen to be trying them on, and, rather than keep you waiting. Well, well, sir, never mind your costume. The question is, if you are genuinely anxious to repair the wrong you've done, what cause do you propose to take? I will be perfectly frank with you, madam, said Peter. I am not in a position to repair any wrong I've done, if I have done any wrong, which I don't admit, by taking any cause whatever. You are not, she cried, and you tell me so to my face. After all, reflected Peter, why should he be afraid of this old lady? In a few more minutes he would be many hundreds of miles away, and he would take very good care not to come back again. He felt master of the situation, and determined to brazen it out. I do, madam, he said, crossing his legs in an easy fashion. Look at it from a reasonable point of view. There is safety in numbers, and they've I have been so unfortunate as to give several young ladies here an entirely erroneous impression. I must leave it to you to deceive them as considerably, but distinctly as you can. For me to make any selection would only create ill-feeling among the rest, and their own good sense will show them that I am forbidden by the laws of my country, which I am the last person to set at defiance, that I am forbidden, even if I were free in other respects, which I am not, to marry them all. The only possible explanation of your conduct is that you are not in your right mind, she said. Who in the world spoke or dreamt of your marrying any one of them? Certainly not I. Oh, said Peter, hopelessly fogged once more. I thought I might unintentionally have given them grounds for some such expectation. I'm very glad I was mistaken. You see, you must really make allowances for my utter ignorance. If this idiotic behaviour is not a mere faint, sir, I can make allowances for much. But surely you are at least sufficiently in your proper senses to see how abominably you have behaved. Have I, said Peter, submissively? I don't wish to contradict you, if you say so, I'm sure, and as I have some reason to believe that my stay on board this ship will not last very much longer, I should like before I go, to express my very sincere regret. There is an easy way of proving your sincerity, sir, if you choose to avail yourself of it, she said. I find it very difficult to believe, from the evident feebleness of your intellect, that you can be the person chiefly responsible for this scandal. Am I correct in my supposition? You are, madam, said Peter. I should never have got myself into such a tangle as this if I had not been talked over by Mr. Perkins. I don't know if I can succeed in making myself clear for the whole business is rather complicated, but I can try to explain it, if you'll only have a little patience. You've said quite enough, she said. I know all I wish to know now, so it was Mr. Perkins who has been using you as his instrument, was it? Certainly, said Peter, but for him nothing of this would have happened. You will have no objection to repeating that statement should I call upon you to do so. No, said Peter, who observed with pleasure that a wrath against himself was almost entirely moderated. But you will have to call soon, or I shall have gone. I don't know if I shall have another opportunity of meeting Mr. Perkins, but if I did, I should certainly tell him that I do not consider he has treated me quite fairly. He has put me in what I may call a false position in several false positions, and if I had had the knowledge I have now, I should have had nothing to do with him from the first. He entirely misled me over this business. Very well, sir, she said. You have shown a more gentlemanly spirit on the whole than I expected. I am glad to find that your evil has been wrought more by want of thought than heart. It will be for you to complete your reparation when the proper time arrives. In the meantime, let this be a warning to you, sir, never to— But here Peter made the sudden discovery that he was no longer in the music room with the boomerang, but at home in his old easy-chair by his bachelor fireside. Phew! he muttered to himself. That was a bad quarter of an hour while it lasted. What an old she-dragon it was! But she's right. It is a warning to me. I mustn't. I really must not draw any more of these confounded time checks. I've made that ship too hot to hold me already. I'd better remain forever in contented ignorance of how I spent that extra time than to go on getting into one mess after another like this. It was a wonder I got out of this one as well as I did. But evidently that old woman knew what Perkins is, and saw I wasn't to blame. Now she'll explain the whole affair to all those girls, whoever they may be, and pitch into Perkins and serve him right. I'm out of it at any rate. And now, thank goodness, after tomorrow I shall have nothing to do but live contentedly and happily with dearest Sophia. I'd better burn this beastly checkbook. I shall never want it again. It would have been well for Peter if he had burned that checkbook. But when it came to the point he could not bring himself to destroy it. After all, it was an interesting souvenir of some very curious, if not unique, experiences, and as such he decided to preserve it. The Fourth Check Peter Tumlin enjoyed his honeymoon extremely in a calm, sober, and rational manner. Sophia discouraged rapture. But on the other hand no one was better fitted to inspire and sustain an intelligent interest in the wonders of geology. And catching her scientific enthusiasm, Peter spent many happy hours with her along the cliffs searching for fossil remains. In fact, the only cloud that threatened to mar their felicity at all was an unfortunate tendency on his part to confuse a trilobide with a reptilide, a blender for which Sophia had no tolerance. He was hazy about his periods, too, until she sent up to town for Lyle's great work on the subject as a birthday surprise for him, and he read it aloud to her on the sands. Altogether it was a peaceful, happy time. And never once in the whole course of his honeymoon did he seriously entertain the possibility of making any further use of his book of blank time checks. If he had contemplated it, no harm would have been done, however, as the book was lying among his neglected papers at his former chambers. He felt no pungent regret when the month came to an end, and they returned to town to take possession of their marrable flat. For what was it but shifting the scene of their happiness? And after this had taken place, Peter was still too much occupied to have leisure for idle and mischievous thoughts. Marrying Sophia was, indeed, like loving Sir Richard Steel's fair lady, a liberal education, and Peter enjoyed the undivided benefit of a rare talent for instruction. He had been giving his attention to astronomy of late, an unguarded remark of his having betrayed to Sophia the extreme crudity of his ideas respecting that science, and she had insisted upon his getting a popular primer with diagrams and mastering it as a preliminary to deeper study. One evening he was in a smaller room of the two that, divided by an arch, served for study and drawing-room combined, and he was busily engaged in working out a simple practical illustration by the aid of one of the aforesaid diagrams. The experiment required a lamp, a ball of cotton, and an orange transfixed by a knitting needle, and it had something to do with the succession of the seasons, solar and lunar eclipses, and the varying lengths of day and night on different portions of our globe, though we was not very clear what. Don't you find you understand the inclination of the moon's orbit to the plane of the ecliptic better now? said Sophia as she came through the arch. I think I shall as soon as I can get the moon to keep steadier, he said, with more hope than he felt, and it's rather hard to remember whereabouts I am supposed to be on this orange. I must get you something to make that clearer, she said, and you haven't tilted the orange nearly enough, but leave it for a moment. I've wrought you in this packet of letters and things the people at your old rooms have just sent down. I wish, while I am away, I shall be back in a minute. You would just run over them and tell me if there are any papers you want kept, or if they may all be burned. While she was gone, he undid the string which fastened the packet, and found, at the bottom of a mass of bills and documents of no value, the small oblong checkbook which he had vowed never to see again. Somehow, as his eyes rested on its green cover, the old long end came upon him for a complete change of air and scene. He felt as if he must get away from that orange. There were no lamps, but electric lights, and no oranges on board the boomerang. But then, his last visit had not turned out a success. What if he were to find he had drawn another quarter of an hour with that irate matron of the music-room? However, he had left her, as he remembered, in a comparatively pacific mood. She understood him better now, and, besides, thanks to the highly erratic system, if there was any system, on which the payments were made, the chances were immensely against his coming across the same old lady twice running. He thought he would risk that. It was much more likely that he would meet Miss Tyrell or Miss Devonport, or it might even be another person to whom he was unconsciously allied by the bond of dear friendship. The only question was how far he could trust himself in such companionship. But here he felt himself guilty of a self-distrust that was unworthy of him. If, on the two previous occasions, he could not call to mind that he had entertained any deeper sentiment for either young lady, than a cordial and sympathetic interest, was it likely that, now he was a married man, he would be more susceptible? He was as devoted to his Sophia as ever, but the wear and tear of several successive evenings spent in elementary astronomy were telling upon his constitution. Such high thinking did not agree with him. He wanted a planar mental diet for a change. Fifteen minutes spent in the society of someone with a mind rather less cultivated than his wives would be very restful. Then, when he came back, he would give his whole mind to the Orange again. In short, all Peter's good resolutions were thrown overboard once more, and he wrote out a check for the usual amount in desperate fear lest Sophia might return before he could get it honoured. He felt a certain compunction, even then, in presenting it to the severe and intensely respectable Black Marble timepiece, which recorded the flying hours of his domestic bliss. He almost doubted whether it would countenance so irregular a proceeding. But, although it was on the verge of striking nine, it cashed the check without hesitation. It was midday. Peter was sitting on a folding seat, protected from the scorching sun by the awning which was stretched above and along the exposed side of the deck, and to his great satisfaction he found Miss Tyrell reclining in a deck chair between himself and the railing, and a pleasant picture of fresh and graceful girlhood she presented. As usual he was not in time for the beginning of the conversation, for she was evidently commenting upon something he had said. How delightful it sounds, she was saying, and what a free, unfettered kind of life yours must be, Mr. Tourmaline, from your description. Now, this was awkward, because he must have been giving her an airy description of his existence as the bachelor and butterfly he had ceased to be. He answered guardedly, awaiting his opportunity to lead up to a disclosure of the change in his circumstances since they had last met. It is pleasant enough, he said, a little dull at times, perhaps, he added, thinking of the orange. She laughed. Oh, you mustn't expect me to pity you, she said. I don't believe you need ever be dull, unless you choose. There must always be friends who are glad to see you. I'm glad to think, said Peter, that when I do feel dull I have at least one friend, one dear friend, from whom I may count upon a welcome. He accompanied this speech with such a look that she could not well pretend to mistake his meaning, and the next moment he regretted it, for he saw he had gone too far. That is a very pretty speech, she said, with a faint flush. But isn't it a little premature, Mr. Tourmaline, considering that we have scarcely known one another two days? For the moment Peter had forgotten the want of consecutiveness in these eccentric time checks. This interview should by rights have proceeded the first he had had with her. He felt annoyed with himself, and still more with the unbusiness-like behaviour of the bank. I—I was anticipating perhaps, he said, but I assure you that we shall certainly be friends. I may even go so far as to say, dear friends, sooner or later, you see if I'm not right. Miss Tyrell smiled. Are you sure, she said, with her eyes demurely lowered, are you sure that there is nobody who might object to her being on quite such intimate terms as that? Peter started. Could she possibly have guessed, and how much did she know? There could be nothing for anybody to object to, he said. Are you, um, referring to any person in particular? She still kept her eyes down, but then she was occupied just at the moment in removing a loose splinter of bamboo from the arm of her chair. You mustn't think me curious or—or indiscreet, if I tell you, she said. But before I knew you to speak to, I—I couldn't help noticing how often, as you said on deck, you used to pull something out of your pocket and look at it. My watch, suggested Peter, feeling uncomfortable. No, not your watch. It looked more like—well, like a photograph. It may have been a photograph. Now you mention it, he admitted. Well, Miss Tyrell? Well, she said, I often amuse myself by making up stories about people I meet, quite strangers, I mean. And, you know, I made up my mind that that photograph was the portrait of someone, some lady you are engaged to. How should so much like to know if I was right or not? Here was Peter's opportunity of revealing his real status, and preventing all chance of future misunderstanding. It was not too late, but still it might be best and kindest to break the news gradually. You were partly right and partly wrong, he said. That was the portrait of a lady I was, once, engaged to. Unless Peter was very much mistaken, there was a new light in her face, an added brightness in her soft grey eyes as she raised them for an instant before resuming her labours upon the wicked chair. Then you mean, she said softly, that the engagement is broken off. Peter began to recognise that explanation was a less simple affair than it had seemed. If he said that he was no longer engaged, but married to the original of that photograph, she would naturally want to know why he had just let her to believe, as he must have done, that he was still a careless and unattached bachelor. She would ask when and where he was married, and how could he give a straightforward and satisfactory answer to such questions? And then another side of the case struck him. As a matter of fact, he was undeniably married, but would he be strictly correct in describing himself as being so, in this particular interview? It belonged properly to the time he had made the voyage home, and he was certainly not married then. In the difficulty he was in, he thought it best to go on telling the truth until it became absolutely impossible, and then fall back on invention. The fact is, Miss Tyrell, he said, that I can't be absolutely certain whether the engagement is ended or not at this precise moment. Her face was alive with the sweetest sympathy. Poor Miss Atturmelin, she said, how horribly anxious you must be to get back and know. Ah! said Peter. Yes, I shall know when I get home, I suppose. And he sighed, for the orange recurred once more to his reluctant memory. Don't tell me if it pains you too much, she said gently. I only ask because I do feel so sorry for you. Do you think that when you do get home you'll find her married? I have every reason for believing so, he said. That will be a terrible blow for you, of course. A blow, said Peter, forgetting himself? Good gracious me, no. Why should it be? I—I mean, I shall be prepared for it, don't you know? Then it's not so bad after all, she said. It's not at all bad, said Peter, with a vague intention of loyalty to Sophia. I like it. I think I understand, she said slowly. You will not be sorry to find she is married. But she may tell you that she never had the least intention of letting you go so easily. Yes, said Peter. She may tell me that suddenly. If she finds out where I've been, he added, mentally. And she continued. What would you do then? I suppose, he said. I suppose I should have to do whatever she wished. Yes, she agreed warmly. You will do that, even if it costs you something, won't you? Because it will be the only right, the only honourable course to take. You will be the happier for it in the end, Mr. Turmaline. I'm sure you will. After all, it seemed to him that she must understand about the time checks, or why should she urge him to give them up if Sophia demanded such a sacrifice? No, I shall not, he said. I shall miss these times terribly. You don't know what they are to me, or you wouldn't speak like that. Mr. Turmaline, she cried, I must not listen to you. You can't possibly mean what you seem to mean. It is wrong, wrong to me, and wrong to her, to say things that, for all you know, you are not free to say. Don't let me think badly of you. Peter was absolutely horrified. What had he said to agitate her like that? He'd merely meant to express the pleasure he found in these brief and stolen visits to the boomerang, and she had misconstrued him like this. At all hazards he must explain now if it took him days to make it clear. My dear Miss Tyrell, he protested earnestly. You quite misunderstood me. You did indeed. Pray be calm, and I will endeavour to make my position a little clearer than I'm afraid I've done. The worst of it is, he added, that the whole thing has got into such a muddle that, for the life of me, I can't exactly make out what my position is at the present moment. You can if you will only recollect that you are this morning pin, said a familiar voice, and with the abruptness characteristic of the time-check system he was back in his study, staying at the ground-glass globe of the lamp and the transfixed orange. The clock behind him was striking nine, and Sophia was offering him a pin with a big black head. Oh, am I the morning pin? he repeated helplessly. Really, Peter, said Sophia, I think the pin just at this moment has the more intelligent expression of the two. Do try to look a little less idiotic. Now see, you stick the pin into the orange to represent your point of view, and then keep on twirling it slowly around. So Peter twirled the orange slowly round for the remainder of the evening, though his thoughts were far away with Miss Tarrell. He was wondering what she could have thought of him, and, worse still, what she would think if she could see him as he was employed at that moment. I tell you what we must do, Peter, when you get a little more advanced, said Sophia, enthusiastically, that evening. We must see if we can't pick up a small second-hand orary somewhere. It would be so nice to have one. Oh, delightful, he said, absently. He was not very clear as to what an orary was, unless it was the dusty machine that was worked with handles at sundry assembly room lectures he had attended in early youth, but of one thing he felt grimly certain, that it was something which would render it necessary to draw more time checks. End of chapter four.