# Ainslee's Magazine/The Pyjama Man/Chapter 5

pp. 16–18.

### CHAPTER V.

The hall door had hardly closed when the girl ran back to her perch on her father's chair. One arm went about his shoulder, and her head rested on his.
“Rheumatism bad, dad?” she queried.
Mr. Bettington's hands fluttered to his knees and caressed them nervously.
“Deuced bad,” he said; “I don't know when it has been so bad. Bagnall failed me—Christmas, you know, and all that sort of thing. If it hadn't been for that young fellow——”
“The pyjama man,” said the girl absently.
“The who? Yes, come to think of it, he was in pyjamas—I should have been at the bottom of those infernal steps still. Nice young fellow that; bit outspoken, but do believe he's a gentleman, and strong—very strong; he carried me—literally carried me to the house.”
The girl smiled—the tender smile of a mother—as her glance rested on the slender figure below her.
“Yes,” she said, still with an air of abstraction, “I think he's strong.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Down at the cove; he goes there every day.”
“Indeed! And who gave him permission?”
The girl smiled reminiscently.
“No one; it just happened.”
“Just happened!” Mr. Bettington's mouth opened twice without emitting any sound. “M-Margaret, this won't do! It's the result of having no woman about the place, letting you run wild, picking up with any larrikin——”
“But you say he's a gentleman, dad.”
Mr. Bettington patted the arm of his chair impatiently.
“I said I believed so.”
“And you've often said you can single them out at a glance.”
The girl took the thin, restless hand between her own.
“He was very kind to you, dad.”
But Mr. Bettington refused to be pacified.
“It's not that, Meg; it's—you don't seem to realize your position. You're a Bettington, and you're engaged to be married. You don't seem to realize it,” he repeated helplessly.
“I can't,” said the girl.
“Then you must. I must make you. This tomboy foolery has got to stop. Running about in a bathing dress, talking to any one who talks to you—er—and that sort of thing. When is it going to stop? You're a woman now, not a child.”
The girl's hand wandered over her father's head, and gently stroked the thin, straggling hair that had been coaxed from its natural resting place to cover an encroaching baldness.
“Frank told you to say this,” she said quietly.
“What if he did?”
“Nothing. I think he's right.”
Mr. Bettington was surprised into silence.
“And, dad”—the girl went over to the table, and stood absently prodding the plum pudding with a fork—“you were saying there ought to be a woman about the place—would you mind if we had one?”
“My dear child, we can't afford visitors.”
“I know; this one won't be a visitor; I mean a boarder.”
The word acted on Mr. Bettington like an electric shock, and the girl was at his side in an instant, soothing his agitated little movements.
“Listen,” she said; “I've been thinking it all out. You won't let me go out and work, but why shouldn't I work here at home until—until then? A boarder—call her a paying guest if you like—would pay thirty shillings a week, perhaps two pounds—think how it would help!”
And Mr. Bettington thought, with an expression of utter disgust on his dissolute face.
“Might as well take in washing, and have done with it,” he muttered.
But the girl's eyes were lit with enthusiasm.
“We needn't get rid of the sideboard or anything any more,” she tempted. “We can keep ourselves and save ten shillings a week out of two pounds, and the interest——”
At the last word Mr. Bettington's head dropped between his hands.
“Yes,” he moaned, “the interest.”
“What is it now, dad?”
“I don't know,” he sighed. “Ever since that Eden affair it's been growing and growing. I don't know. Walker has been very good, but——”
“Good!” flashed the girl. “Good—when he lost all we had!”
Mr. Bettington raised an imploring hand.
“For Heaven's sake, child, don't talk about it! It's over and done with. Remember, he lost a great deal, too.”
“But did he?” The girl turned from her attack on the plum pudding, and faced her father. “It doesn't look like it.”
“He could afford it,” wailed Mr. Bettington; “we couldn't; that's the difference. Don't—er—offend him, Meg; it's all I ask of you.”
She crossed and knelt beside his chair.
“Of course I won't. It will be all right—don't be afraid of him.”
“Afraid of him!” spluttered Mr. Bettington, grasping the arm of the chair. “Who said I was afraid of him?”
“No one, dad; of course you're not; I mean don't let it worry you. Let me have the boarder, and everything will be all right. May I?”
Mr. Bettington glanced down at the pleading face upturned to his, and for the first time in many a month he so far forgot his own troubles as to notice that his child was growing into an undeniably pretty woman. The realization came as something of a shock. It meant so much; it meant that Walker would not wait much longer. But he dispersed the thought with another that he often summoned as a solace to his conscience—he was not pushing the marriage; he was positively averse to it, and beyond that point in his responsibilities he steadfastly refused to probe.
“Very well,” he agreed, with the magnanimity peculiar to his kind: “have your boarder—a dozen of 'em if you like.” He struggled to rise. “I must get to bed somehow. Where are my slippers?”
Meanwhile, Sprague was walking across the cliff with the land agent.
He knew that he had too clearly shown his dislike of the man. It was a weakness of his, and one he had never been able to overcome.
He wondered if he had been downright rude to him, and was relieved to notice that there was no indication of it in the other's manner.
Mr. Walker waved the stub of his cigar over his shoulder as they left the avenue.
“I don't know if you know it,” he said, “but you're lucky to get in with those people. You won't find many like them around here. They were top dogs at home.” He shook his head sadly. “But it's a different tune in the colonies, ain't it?”
“Very different,” said Sprague.
“Jack's as good as his master out here,” affirmed the land agent, ”and thinks he's a blamed sight better. Don't I know it when I want a house put up? It's a fight to a finish, and the best man wins. Bettington never learned to fight; never had to; and that's how he's got left. It's a pity—a great big pity.”
Sprague succeeded in refraining from comment.
“Now, Meg's got sand,” the other continued, “and she's got something else that I can't put a label on. Anyway, we don't grow 'em like her over our side. That's why she's got me—got me cinched, Mr. Sprague; and that's why, if a man came between me and her, I'd crush him”—he brought a fleshy fist down into the palm of his other hand—“like that!”
Sprague was still silent. Although the man and his uncalled-for confidences filled him with a disgust he could hardly control, he could not help seeing that Walker was in earnest; that for his own reasons, and in his own way, he loved Meg Bettington, and intended to marry her. The thing was repulsive, but a fact, and an unassailable one; moreover, Sprague suddenly realized that it had nothing whatever to do with him, and was vaguely annoyed at the strength of his own feelings in the matter.
“I don't wonder,” he said, with an indifference that he was far from feeling. “You would have to go a long way to find the equal of Miss Bettington.”
“You bet you would!” agreed the land agent. “It sounds queer, though, to hear you calling her 'Miss Bettington.' I've never heard her called that before—don't seem to fit her some way. Meg's nothing but a kid, and God knows when she'll grow up.”
He sighed heavily.
“Don't you think it will be rather a pity when she does grow up?” Sprague suggested.
“I do,” agreed the other emphatically; “I sure do, Mr. Sprague; but what's a man to do when her father's always harping on it? 'Wait a bit, Walker,' he says; 'wait a bit; she's only a child.' And I've waited. But I'm damned if I will much longer!
“Thought I might as well let you know how things are,” he explained, after a pause; “then we all know where we're at, don't we?”
After which ambiguity he lapsed into welcomed silence.
As they approached the head of the steps he waved a hand toward Sprague's cottage.
“I made a big break letting you have that place,” he remarked. “Twelve shillings a week! And the day after three offers of twenty-five.”
He stopped suddenly, and faced Sprague.
“See here, Mr. Sprague, break the lease, and I'll refund the money you've paid. Is it a do?"
Sprague smiled under cover of the darkness. It gave him an unwonted thrill of pleasure to hear this man breathing audibly in his suspense.
“Oh, I'm fairly comfortable, thanks,” he said. ”Besides, what is money, Mr. Walker—an herb?”