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Updated: May 10, 2025
Emanuel was indeed beginning to show quite an intelligent interest in the ship and ocean. "Of course it must be hung," said he. He was very human, was Jimmy Ollerenshaw. For at least twenty-five years he had possessed the ship and ocean, and cherished it, always meaning one day to hang it against the wall as it deserved.
He was about to extinguish the candle when she stopped him. "Mr. Ollerenshaw," she said, firmly, "you haven't got your boots on. Those slippers are not thick enough for this weather." He gazed at her. Should he yield to her? The idea of yielding to her, for the mere sake of yielding to her, presented itself to him as a charming idea. So he disappeared with the candle, and reappeared in his boots.
And the back yard was used as a scullery. This arrangement never struck anybody as singular; it did not strike even Helen as singular. Her mother's house had exhibited the same oddness until she reorganised it. If James Ollerenshaw had not needed an office, his sitting-room would have languished in desuetude.
Ollerenshaw, the genial host of that so remarkably successful entertainment. The appearances and disappearances of Mr. Ollerenshaw had been a little disturbing. First it had been announced that he was detained in Derby, buying property.
James Ollerenshaw. He was watching a man who earned four-and-sixpence a day by gently toying from time to time with a roller on the polished surface of the green. Mr. James Ollerenshaw's age was sixty; but he looked as if he did not care. His appearance was shabby; but he did not seem to mind.
"Helen Rathbone," said Uncle James one Tuesday afternoon, "have ye been meddling in my cashbox?" They were sitting in the front room, Helen in a light-grey costume that cascaded over her chair and half the next chair, and James Ollerenshaw in the deshabille of his Turkish cap. James was at his desk.
Ollerenshaw," said a voice, queenly and nervous. "Not Mrs. Prockter?" he suggested. "Yes." "I reckon ye'd like to come in," he said. She admitted the desire with a laugh which struck him as excessively free. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry that Helen had departed to bed. He did not even know whether to be glad or sorry that Mrs. Prockter had called.
Her voice came to him out of nothing, and had a most curious effect on his spine. "Where are you, Mr. Ollerenshaw?" "I'm a-sitting here," he replied. "Well," said she, "if you can't find a match, I think you had better lead me to the door. I certainly can't find my way there myself. Where is your hand?" Then a hand touched his shoulder and burnt him. "Is that you?" asked the voice. "Ay!" he said.
Yet there were only three persons present besides himself. But decidedly they were not of his world; they were of the world that referred to him as "old Jimmy Ollerenshaw," or briefly as "Jimmy." And he had to sit and listen to them, and even to answer coherently when spoken to. Emanuel Prockter was brilliant.
Obviously, Emanuel ought to marry another fool. And goodness knows there are plenty to choose from. And yet he must needs go and fall in love with almost the only sensible girl in the town! There's no end to that boy's foolishness. He actually wants me to buy Wilbraham Hall, furniture, and everything! What do you think it's worth, Mr. Ollerenshaw?" "Worth? It's worth what it'll fetch."
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