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I expected, when I said good-by—and I rather think he warned me solemnly, at parting, to take the greatest care of it.’ There’s not a farthing more for you,’ he said, ‘till your ship returns from her South American station.’ Your father is a clergyman, Stone.”
“Well, and what of that?”
“And some clergymen are rich.”
“My father is not one of them, Cosway.”
“Then let us say no more about him. Help yourself, and pass the bottle.”
Instead of adopting this suggestion, Stone rose with a very grave face, and once more rang the bell. “Ask the landlady to step up,” he said, when the waiter appeared.
“What do you want with the landlady?” Cosway inquired.
“I want the bill.”
The landlady—otherwise Mrs. Pounce—entered the room. She was short, and old, and fat, and painted, and a widow. Students of character, as revealed in the face, would have discovered malice and cunning in her bright black eyes, and a bitter vindictive temper in the lines about her thin red lips. Incapable of such subtleties of analysis as these, the two young officers differed widely, nevertheless, in their opinions of Mrs. Pounce. Cosway’s reckless sense of humor delighted in pretending to be in love with her. Stone took a dislike to her from the first. When his friend asked for the reason, he made a strangely obscure answer. “Do you remember that morning in the wood when you killed the snake?” he said. “I took a dislike to the snake.” Cosway made no further inquiries.
“Well, my young heroes,” said Mrs. Pounce (always loud, always cheerful, and always familiar with her guests), “what do you want with me now?”
“Take a glass of champagne, my darling,” said Cosway; “and let me try if I can get my arm round your waist. That’s all I want with you.”
The landlady passed this over without notice. Though she had spoken to both of them, her cunning little eyes rested on Stone from the moment when she appeared in the room. She knew by instinct the man who disliked her—and she waited deliberately for Stone to reply.
“We have been here some time,” he said, “and we shall be obliged, ma’am, if you will let us have our bill.”
Mrs. Pounce lifted her eyebrows with an expression of innocent surprise.
“Has the captain got well, and must you go on board to-night?” she asked.
“Nothing of the sort!” Cosway interposed. “We have no news of the captain, and we are going to the theater to-night.”
“But,” persisted Stone, “we want, if you please, to have the bill.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Pounce, with a sudden assumption of respect. “But we are very busy downstairs, and we hope you will not press us for it to-night?”
“Of course not!” cried Cosway.
Mrs. Pounce instantly left the room, without waiting for any further remark from Cosway’s friend.
“I wish we had gone to some other house,” said Stone. “You mark my words—that woman means to cheat us.”
Cosway expressed his dissent from this opinion in the most amiable manner. He filled his friend’s glass, and begged him not to say ill-natured things of Mrs. Pounce.
But Stone’s usually smooth temper seemed to be ruffled; he insisted on his own view. “She’s impudent and inquisitive, if she is not downright dishonest,” he said. “What right had she to ask you where we lived when we were at home; and what our Christian names were; and which of us was oldest, you or I? Oh, yes—it’s all very well to say she only showed a flattering interest in us! I suppose she showed a flattering interest in my affairs, when I awoke a little earlier than usual, and caught her in my bedroom with my pocketbook in her hand. Do you believe she was going to lock it up for safety’s sake? She knows how much money we have got as well as we know it ourselves. Every half-penny we have will be in her pocket tomorrow. And a good thing, too—we shall be obliged to leave the house.”
Even this cogent reasoning failed in provoking Cosway to reply. He took Stone’s hat, and handed it with the utmost politeness to his foreboding friend. “There’s only one remedy for such a state of mind as yours,” he said. “Come to the theater.”
At ten o’clock the next morning Cosway found himself alone at the breakfast-table. He was informed that Mr. Stone had gone out for a little walk, and would be back directly. Seating himself at the table, he perceived an envelope on his plate, which evidently inclosed the bill. He took up the envelope, considered a little, and put it back again unopened. At the same moment Stone burst into the room in a high state of excitement.
“News that will astonish you!” he cried. “The captain arrived yesterday evening. His doctors say that the sea-voyage will complete his recovery. The ship sails to-day—and we are ordered to report ourselves on board in an hour’s time. Where’s the bill?”
Cosway pointed to it. Stone took it out of the envelope.
It covered two sides of a prodigiously long sheet of paper. The sum total was brightly decorated with lines in red ink. Stone looked at the total, and passed it in silence to Cosway. For once, even Cosway was prostrated. In dreadful stillness the two young men produced their pocketbooks; added up their joint stores of money, and compared the result with the bill. Their united resources amounted to a little more than one-third of their debt to the landlady of the inn.
The only alternative that presented itself was to send for Mrs. Pounce; to state the circumstances plainly; and to propose a compromise on the grand commercial basis of credit.
Mrs. Pounce presented herself superbly dressed in walking costume. Was she going out; or had she just returned to the inn? Not a word escaped her; she waited gravely to hear what the gentlemen wanted. Cosway, presuming on his position as favorite, produced the contents of the two pocketbooks and revealed the melancholy truth.
“There is all the money we have,” he concluded. “We hope you will not object to receive the balance in a bill at three months.”
Mrs. Pounce answered with a stern composure of voice and manner entirely new in the experience of Cosway and Stone.
“I have paid ready money, gentlemen, for the hire of your horses and carriages,” she said; “here are the receipts from the livery stables to vouch for me; I never accept bills unless I am quite sure beforehand that they will be honored. I defy you to find an overcharge in the account now rendered; and I expect you to pay it before you leave my house.”
Stone looked at his watch.
“In three-quarters of an hour,” he said, “we must be on board.”
Mrs. Pounce entirely agreed with him. “And if you are not on board,” she remarked “you will be tried by court-martial, and dismissed the service with your characters ruined for life.”
“My dear creature, we haven’t time to send home, and we know nobody in the town,” pleaded Cosway. “For God’s sake take our watches and jewelry, and our luggage—and let us go.”
“I am not a pawnbroker,” said the inflexible lady. “You must either pay your lawful debt to me in honest money, or—”
She paused and looked at Cosway. Her fat face brightened—she smiled graciously for the first time.
Cosway stared at her in unconcealed perplexity. He helplessly repeated her last words. “We must either pay the bill,” he said, “or what?”
“Or,” answered Mrs. Pounce, “one of you must marry ME.”
Was she joking? Was she intoxicated? Was she out of her senses? Neither of the three; she was in perfect possession of herself; her explanation was a model of lucid and convincing arrangement of facts.
“My