For about five seconds an awkward silence held the
company. Their fuddled memories retained scraps
of gossip concerning Ruth, her history and destiny—gossip
scandalous in the main. One or two glanced at
the Collector, who had resumed his seat—and
his scowl.
“The more reason she should drink his health.”
Again Mr. Silk was fugleman.
His voice braved it off on the silence. Ruth
was raising her glass. Her eyes sought Miss Quiney’s;
but Miss Quiney’s, lifted heavenward, had encountered
the ceiling upon which Mr. Manley had recently depicted
the hymeneals of Venus and Vulcan, not omitting Mars;
and the treatment—a riot of the nude—had
for the moment put the redoubtable little lady out
of action.
Ruth leaned forward in her seat, lifting her glass
high. It brimmed, but she spilled no drop.
“To Sir Oliver!”
CAPTAIN HARRY AND MR. HANMER.
“Guests, has he?—Out of my road,
you rascal! Guests? I’ll warrant
there’s none so welcome—”
A good cheery voice—a voice the curtain
could not muffle—rang it down the corridor
as on the note of a cornet.
The wine was at Ruth’s lip, scarcely wetting
it. She lowered the glass steadily and turned
half-about in her chair at the moment when, as before
a whirlwind, the curtain flew wide and a stranger burst
in on the run with Manasseh at his heels.
“Oliver!” The stranger drew himself up
in the doorway—a well-knit figure of a
man, clear of eye, bronzed of hue, clad in blue sea-cloth
faced with scarlet, and wearing a short sword at the
hip. “Where’s my Oliver?”
he shouted. “You’ll forgive my voice,
gentlemen. I’m Harry Vyell, at your service,
fresh from shipboard, and not hoarse with anthems
like old what-d’ye-call-him.” Running
his gaze along the table, he sighted the Collector
and broke into a view-halloo.
“Oliver! Brother Noll!” Captain
Harry made a second run of it, caught his foot on
the prostrate toper whom Langton had dragged out of
Miss Quiney’s way, and fell on his brother’s
neck. Recovering himself with a “damn,”
he clapped his left hand on Sir Oliver’s shoulder,
seized Sir Oliver’s right in his grip and started
pump-handling—“as though” murmured
Langton, “the room were sinking with ten feet
of liquor in the hold.”
“Harry—is it Harry?” Sir Oliver
stammered, and made a weak effort to rise.
“Lord! You’re drunk!” Captain
Harry crowed the cheerful discovery. “Well,
and I’ll join you—but in moderation,
mind! Newly married man— if some
one will be good enough to pass the decanter? . . .
My dear fellow! . . . Cast anchor half an hour
ago—got myself rowed ashore hot-foot to
shake my Noll by the hand. Lord, brother, you
can’t think how good it feels to be married!
Sally won’t be coming ashore to-night; the
hour’s too late, she says; so I’m allowed
an hour’s liberty.” Here the uxorious
