Chapter 11: A Mutual Affinity

I

“What the--blazes!”

George Coventry sat with an open envelope in his hand. It was an ordinary white envelope--”business” size--of not too fine a quality. It was addressed: “George Coventry, Esq., Hôtel Metropole, Brighton.” The address was type-written.

“Dun!”

That was the one word which had crossed his mind when he first glanced at the exterior of this missive. When he took it up his suspicions were strengthened. It was fat and bulky.

“Contains either a writ or a bill in several volumes.”

He laid it down again. He looked at it ruefully as he puffed at his pipe. Then, gathering together his courage with a sigh, he opened it. It was at this point he emitted the above exclamation, --”What the--blazes!”

The envelope was full of crinkly pieces of paper--bank-notes. There were ten of them. Each was for a thousand pounds. Mr Coventry stared at them with bewildered amazement.

“Someone is having a joke with me! Bank of Elegance, for a fiver!”

But they were not on the Bank of Elegance. Mr Coventry fancied that he knew a genuine bank-note when he saw one. After examination, he concluded that if these were forgeries, then he was not so good a judge as he thought he was. He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book for the purpose of comparison.

“Right uns, as I’m a sinner! Then, in that case, it strikes me they’ve been sent to the wrong address.”

In his desire to establish the genuineness of the notes, he had temporarily overlooked a sheet of paper which he had drawn with them from the envelope. This he now examined. It was a single sheet of large post. On it these words were typewritten, --

“The accompanying bank-notes (£10,000) are forwarded to Mr George Coventry, to enable him to pay the losses which he has experienced during the Brighton races.”

When Mr Coventry read this, his bewilderment, instead of being diminished, was considerably increased. There was no signature, no address, no clue to the sender. One type-writer is like another, so that there was no clue in the words themselves. Someone, of infinite faith, had entrusted £10,000 to the guardianship of a flimsy envelope and of a penny stamp. Mr Coventry had flattered himself that no one knew--as yet--of the particularly tight place that he was in. Here was proof positive that he had been guilty of self-deception indeed.

He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all--that was left--that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his “friends,” how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of £10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone!

“Would--would you lend me your arm? I--I am afraid I have hurt my foot.”

Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black.

“I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?”

“Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle.”

The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain.

“Let me carry you to a seat.”

Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant’s notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion.

“I’ll fetch you a bath-chair.”

He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman’s. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away.

It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him.

“I ought to have asked her her name.”

He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.

That afternoon he called at the house in the Steyne. A person, evidently of the landlady type, opened the door. He handed in his card with, pencilled on it, the words: “I venture to hope that your foot is better.” A reply came to the effect that he was requested to walk upstairs. He walked upstairs. He was shown into what was undeniably a lodging-house sitting-room. As he entered, someone was lying on a sofa; it was the little woman in black.

“It is very kind of you to call, Mr Coventry. I ought to have thanked you for your goodness to me this morning, but you were gone in a moment.”

Mr Coventry murmured something. He hoped that her foot was better.

“Oh, it is nothing. Only I think that I had better rest it a little, and that is rather a difficult thing for me to do; rest means interference with my work.” Perhaps because he seemed to hesitate, she added: “I am a teacher of music.”

“Then I am afraid that your accident will be hard on your pupils.”

She laughed. “The worst of it is, there are not many of them. I cannot afford to offend the few I have.” She changed her tone. “I cannot think how it was I was so awkward, Mr Coventry. I was coming up the steps when my foot slipped, and--there I was. It was such a silly thing to do.”

Mr Coventry explained that it was the easiest thing in the world to twist one’s ankle. Further, that a twisted ankle sometimes turned out to be a serious matter. Possibly the lady knew this without his telling her, yet she seemed grateful for the information.

The gentleman’s visit, considering the circumstances, extended to what seemed to be an unnecessary length, yet neither appeared particularly desirous to bring it to a close. Before they parted they were talking like old friends. She had told him that her name was Hardy--Dora Hardy. She had imparted the further information that she was an orphan--alone in the world. They talked a great deal about, it must be owned, a very little, and they would probably have had as much to say even if the subject matter had been still less. Such conversations are not dependent upon subjects.

The next day he returned to inquire after her foot. It seemed better, but was not yet quite recovered; its owner was still upon the couch. That visit was even longer than the first had been. During its progress Mr Coventry became singularly frank. He actually made a confidant of the little woman on the couch. He told her all his history, unfolded the list of his follies--a part of it that is, for the list was long. Some folks would have said that he was adding to the crowning folly of them all. He told her of his recent disastrous speculations on what, doubtless in the cause of euphony, is called “the turf.” He even told of the ten thousand pounds!

It must be allowed that Miss Hardy seemed to find the young gentleman’s egotistical outpourings not devoid of interest. When he spoke of the contents of the mysterious envelope she gave quite a little start.

“I don’t understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received £10,000 from a stranger?”

“I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each.”

“But it’s ridiculous. They can’t be genuine.”

“Aren’t they? See for yourself. If they’re not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet.”

He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy.