2.
Jill, when Freddie and Nelly left the room, had seated herself on a low stool, and sat, looking thoughtfully into the fire. She was wondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that Uncle Chris was worried about something. This restlessness of his, this desire for movement, was strange in him. Hitherto he had been like a dear old cosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced so eloquently. She watched him as he took up his favorite stand in front of the fire.
“Nice girl,” said Uncle Chris. “Who was she?”
“Somebody Freddie met,” said Jill diplomatically. There was no need to worry Uncle Chris with details of the afternoon’s happenings.
“Very nice girl.” Uncle Chris took out his cigar-case. “No need to ask if I may, thank goodness.” He lit a cigar. “Do you remember, Jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how I used to blow smoke in your face?”
Jill smiled.
“Of course I do. You said that you were training me for marriage. You said that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn’t mind the smell of tobacco. Well, it’s lucky, as a matter of fact, for Derek smokes all the time.”
Uncle Chris took up his favorite stand against the fireplace.
“You’re very fond of Derek, aren’t you, Jill?”
“Of course I am. You are, too, aren’t you?”
“Fine chap. Very fine chap. Plenty of money, too. It’s a great relief,” said Uncle Chris, puffing vigorously. “A thundering relief.” He looked over Jill’s head down the room. “It’s fine to think of you happily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want.”
Uncle Chris’ gaze wandered down to where Jill sat. A slight mist affected his eyesight. Jill had provided a solution for the great problem of his life. Marriage had always appalled him, but there was this to be said for it, that married people had daughters. He had always wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proud of; and fate had given him Jill at precisely the right age. A child would have bored Uncle Chris—he was fond of children, but they made the deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament—but a delightful little girl of fourteen was different. Jill and he had been very close to each other since her mother had died, a year after the death of her father, and had left her in his charge. He had watched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment in it—she seemed to grow so quickly—and had been fonder and prouder of her at every stage of her tumultuous career.
“You’re a dear,” said Jill. She stroked the trouser-leg that was nearest. “How do you manage to get such a wonderful crease? You really are a credit to me!”
There was a momentary silence. A shade of embarrassment made itself noticeable in Uncle Chris’ frank gaze. He gave a little cough, and pulled at his mustache.
“I wish I were, my dear,” he said soberly. “I wish I were. I’m afraid I’m a poor sort of fellow, Jill.”
Jill looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“A poor sort of fellow,” repeated Uncle Chris. “Your mother was foolish to trust you to me. Your father had more sense. He always said I was a wrong’un.”
Jill got up quickly. She was certain now that she had been right, and that there was something on her uncle’s mind.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Chris? Something’s happened. What is it?”
Uncle Chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. The movement gave him time to collect himself for what lay before him. He had one of those rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate so long as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence of disaster. He lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as bad at breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when he confronted Jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them. He was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. Until this moment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairs which would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. His mind was a telephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of Trouble wished to speak. The time would arrive, he had been aware, when he would have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refused to listen. Now it could he evaded no longer.