CHAPTER VII.
The river in its Sunday garb.--Dress on the river.--A chance for themen.--Absence of taste in Harris.--George's blazer.--A day with thefashion-plate young lady.--Mrs. Thomas's tomb.--The man who loves notgraves and coffins and skulls.--Harris mad.--His views on George andBanks and lemonade.--He performs tricks.
It was while passing through Moulsey Lock that Harris told me about hismaze experience. It took us some time to pass through, as we were theonly boat, and it is a big lock. I don't think I ever remember to haveseen Moulsey Lock, before, with only one boat in it. It is, I suppose,Boulter's not even excepted, the busiest lock on the river.
I have stood and watched it, sometimes, when you could not see any waterat all, but only a brilliant tangle of bright blazers, and gay caps, andsaucy hats, and many-coloured parasols, and silken rugs, and cloaks, andstreaming ribbons, and dainty whites; when looking down into the lockfrom the quay, you might fancy it was a huge box into which flowers ofevery hue and shade had been thrown pell-mell, and lay piled up in arainbow heap, that covered every corner.
On a fine Sunday it presents this appearance nearly all day long, while,up the stream, and down the stream, lie, waiting their turn, outside thegates, long lines of still more boats; and boats are drawing near andpassing away, so that the sunny river, from the Palace up to HamptonChurch, is dotted and decked with yellow, and blue, and orange, andwhite, and red, and pink. All the inhabitants of Hampton and Moulseydress themselves up in boating costume, and come and mouch round the lockwith their dogs, and flirt, and smoke, and watch the boats; and,altogether, what with the caps and jackets of the men, the prettycoloured dresses of the women, the excited dogs, the moving boats, thewhite sails, the pleasant landscape, and the sparkling water, it is oneof the gayest sights I know of near this dull old London town.
The river affords a good opportunity for dress. For once in a way, wemen are able to show _our_ taste in colours, and I think we come out verynatty, if you ask me. I always like a little red in my things--red andblack. You know my hair is a sort of golden brown, rather a pretty shadeI've been told, and a dark red matches it beautifully; and then I alwaysthink a light-blue necktie goes so well with it, and a pair of thoseRussian-leather shoes and a red silk handkerchief round the waist--ahandkerchief looks so much better than a belt.
Harris always keeps to shades or mixtures of orange or yellow, but Idon't think he is at all wise in this. His complexion is too dark foryellows. Yellows don't suit him: there can be no question about it. Iwant him to take to blue as a background, with white or cream for relief;but, there! the less taste a person has in dress, the more obstinate healways seems to be. It is a great pity, because he will never be asuccess as it is, while there are one or two colours in which he mightnot really look so bad, with his hat on.
George has bought some new things for this trip, and I'm rather vexedabout them. The blazer is loud. I should not like George to know that Ithought so, but there really is no other word for it. He brought it homeand showed it to us on Thursday evening. We asked him what colour hecalled it, and he said he didn't know. He didn't think there was a namefor the colour. The man had told him it was an Oriental design. Georgeput it on, and asked us what we thought of it. Harris said that, as anobject to hang over a flower-bed in early spring to frighten the birdsaway, he should respect it; but that, considered as an article of dressfor any human being, except a Margate nigger, it made him ill. Georgegot quite huffy; but, as Harris said, if he didn't want his opinion, whydid he ask for it?
What troubles Harris and myself, with regard to it, is that we are afraidit will attract attention to the boat.
[Picture: Young lady] Girls, also, don't look half bad in a boat, ifprettily dressed. Nothing is more fetching, to my thinking, than atasteful boating costume. But a "boating costume," it would be as wellif all ladies would understand, ought to be a costume that can be worn ina boat, and not merely under a glass-case. It utterly spoils anexcursion if you have folk in the boat who are thinking all the time agood deal more of their dress than of the trip. It was my misfortuneonce to go for a water picnic with two ladies of this kind. We did havea lively time!
They were both beautifully got up--all lace and silky stuff, and flowers,and ribbons, and dainty shoes, and light gloves. But they were dressedfor a photographic studio, not for a river picnic. They were the"boating costumes" of a French fashion-plate. It was ridiculous, foolingabout in them anywhere near real earth, air, and water.
The first thing was that they thought the boat was not clean. We dustedall the seats for them, and then assured them that it was, but theydidn't believe us. One of them rubbed the cushion with the forefinger ofher glove, and showed the result to the other, and they both sighed, andsat down, with the air of early Christian martyrs trying to makethemselves comfortable up against the stake. You are liable tooccasionally splash a little when sculling, and it appeared that a dropof water ruined those costumes. The mark never came out, and a stain wasleft on the dress for ever.
I was stroke. I did my best. I feathered some two feet high, and Ipaused at the end of each stroke to let the blades drip before returningthem, and I picked out a smooth bit of water to drop them into again eachtime. (Bow said, after a while, that he did not feel himself asufficiently accomplished oarsman to pull with me, but that he would sitstill, if I would allow him, and study my stroke. He said it interestedhim.) But, notwithstanding all this, and try as I would, I could nothelp an occasional flicker of water from going over those dresses.
The girls did not complain, but they huddled up close together, and settheir lips firm, and every time a drop touched them, they visibly shrankand shuddered. It was a noble sight to see them suffering thus insilence, but it unnerved me altogether. I am too sensitive. I got wildand fitful in my rowing, and splashed more and more, the harder I triednot to.
I gave it up at last; I said I'd row bow. Bow thought the arrangementwould be better too, and we changed places. The ladies gave aninvoluntary sigh of relief when they saw me go, and quite brightened upfor a moment. Poor girls! they had better have put up with me. The manthey had got now was a jolly, light-hearted, thick-headed sort of a chap,with about as much sensitiveness in him as there might be in aNewfoundland puppy. You might look daggers at him for an hour and hewould not notice it, and it would not trouble him if he did. He set agood, rollicking, dashing stroke that sent the spray playing all over theboat like a fountain, and made the whole crowd sit up straight in notime. When he spread more than pint of water over one of those dresses,he would give a pleasant little laugh, and say:
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure;" and offer them his handkerchief to wipe itoff with.
"Oh, it's of no consequence," the poor girls would murmur in reply, andcovertly draw rugs and coats over themselves, and try and protectthemselves with their lace parasols.
At lunch they had a very bad time of it. People wanted them to sit onthe grass, and the grass was dusty; and the tree-trunks, against whichthey were invited to lean, did not appear to have been brushed for weeks;so they spread their handkerchiefs on the ground and sat on those, boltupright. Somebody, in walking about with a plate of beef-steak pie,tripped up over a root, and sent the pie flying. None of it went overthem, fortunately, but the accident suggested a fresh danger to them, andagitated them; and, whenever anybody moved about, after that, withanything in his hand that could fall and make a mess, they watched thatperson with growing anxiety until he sat down again.
[Picture: Washing up]
"Now then, you girls," said our friend Bow to them, cheerily, after itwas all over, "come along, you've got to wash up!"
They didn't understand him at first. When they grasped the idea, theysaid they feared they did not know how to wash up.
"Oh, I'll soon show you," he cried; "it's rare fun! You lie down onyour--I mean you lean over the bank, you know, and sloush the thingsabout in the water."
The elder siste
r said that she was afraid that they hadn't got on dressessuited to the work.
"Oh, they'll be all right," said he light-heartedly; "tuck 'em up."
And he made them do it, too. He told them that that sort of thing washalf the fun of a picnic. They said it was very interesting.
Now I come to think it over, was that young man as dense-headed as wethought? or was he--no, impossible! there was such a simple, child-likeexpression about him!
Harris wanted to get out at Hampton Church, to go and see Mrs. Thomas'stomb.
"Who is Mrs. Thomas?" I asked.
"How should I know?" replied Harris. "She's a lady that's got a funnytomb, and I want to see it."
I objected. I don't know whether it is that I am built wrong, but Inever did seem to hanker after tombstones myself. I know that the properthing to do, when you get to a village or town, is to rush off to thechurchyard, and enjoy the graves; but it is a recreation that I alwaysdeny myself. I take no interest in creeping round dim and chillychurches behind wheezy old men, and reading epitaphs. Not even the sightof a bit of cracked brass let into a stone affords me what I call realhappiness.
I shock respectable sextons by the imperturbability I am able to assumebefore exciting inscriptions, and by my lack of enthusiasm for the localfamily history, while my ill-concealed anxiety to get outside woundstheir feelings.
One golden morning of a sunny day, I leant against the low stone wallthat guarded a little village church, and I smoked, and drank in deep,calm gladness from the sweet, restful scene--the grey old church with itsclustering ivy and its quaint carved wooden porch, the white lane windingdown the hill between tall rows of elms, the thatched-roof cottagespeeping above their trim-kept hedges, the silver river in the hollow, thewooded hills beyond!
It was a lovely landscape. It was idyllic, poetical, and it inspired me.I felt good and noble. I felt I didn't want to be sinful and wicked anymore. I would come and live here, and never do any more wrong, and leada blameless, beautiful life, and have silver hair when I got old, and allthat sort of thing.
In that moment I forgave all my friends and relations for theirwickedness and cussedness, and I blessed them. They did not know that Iblessed them. They went their abandoned way all unconscious of what I,far away in that peaceful village, was doing for them; but I did it, andI wished that I could let them know that I had done it, because I wantedto make them happy. I was going on thinking away all these grand, tenderthoughts, when my reverie was broken in upon by a shrill piping voicecrying out:
"All right, sur, I'm a-coming, I'm a-coming. It's all right, sur; don'tyou be in a hurry."
I looked up, and saw an old bald-headed man hobbling across thechurchyard towards me, carrying a huge bunch of keys in his hand thatshook and jingled at every step.
I motioned him away with silent dignity, but he still advanced,screeching out the while:
"I'm a-coming, sur, I'm a-coming. I'm a little lame. I ain't as spry asI used to be. This way, sur."
"Go away, you miserable old man," I said.
"I've come as soon as I could, sur," he replied. "My missis never seeyou till just this minute. You follow me, sur."
"Go away," I repeated; "leave me before I get over the wall, and slayyou."
He seemed surprised.
"Don't you want to see the tombs?" he said.
"No," I answered, "I don't. I want to stop here, leaning up against thisgritty old wall. Go away, and don't disturb me. I am chock full ofbeautiful and noble thoughts, and I want to stop like it, because itfeels nice and good. Don't you come fooling about, making me mad,chivying away all my better feelings with this silly tombstone nonsenseof yours. Go away, and get somebody to bury you cheap, and I'll pay halfthe expense."
He was bewildered for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, and looked hard atme. I seemed human enough on the outside: he couldn't make it out.
He said:
"Yuise a stranger in these parts? You don't live here?"
[Picture: Graves] "No," I said, "I don't. _You_ wouldn't if _I_ did."
"Well then," he said, "you want to see the tombs--graves--folks beenburied, you know--coffins!"
"You are an untruther," I replied, getting roused; "I do not want to seetombs--not your tombs. Why should I? We have graves of our own, ourfamily has. Why my uncle Podger has a tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery,that is the pride of all that country-side; and my grandfather's vault atBow is capable of accommodating eight visitors, while my great-aunt Susanhas a brick grave in Finchley Churchyard, with a headstone with acoffee-pot sort of thing in bas-relief upon it, and a six-inch best whitestone coping all the way round, that cost pounds. When I want graves, itis to those places that I go and revel. I do not want other folk's.When you yourself are buried, I will come and see yours. That is all Ican do for you."
He burst into tears. He said that one of the tombs had a bit of stoneupon the top of it that had been said by some to be probably part of theremains of the figure of a man, and that another had some words, carvedupon it, that nobody had ever been able to decipher.
I still remained obdurate, and, in broken-hearted tones, he said:
"Well, won't you come and see the memorial window?"
I would not even see that, so he fired his last shot. He drew near, andwhispered hoarsely:
"I've got a couple of skulls down in the crypt," he said; "come and seethose. Oh, do come and see the skulls! You are a young man out for aholiday, and you want to enjoy yourself. Come and see the skulls!"
Then I turned and fled, and as I sped I heard him calling to me:
"Oh, come and see the skulls; come back and see the skulls!"
Harris, however, revels in tombs, and graves, and epitaphs, andmonumental inscriptions, and the thought of not seeing Mrs. Thomas'sgrave made him crazy. He said he had looked forward to seeing Mrs.Thomas's grave from the first moment that the trip was proposed--said hewouldn't have joined if it hadn't been for the idea of seeing Mrs.Thomas's tomb.
I reminded him of George, and how we had to get the boat up to Sheppertonby five o'clock to meet him, and then he went for George. Why was Georgeto fool about all day, and leave us to lug this lumbering old top-heavybarge up and down the river by ourselves to meet him? Why couldn'tGeorge come and do some work? Why couldn't he have got the day off, andcome down with us? Bank be blowed! What good was he at the bank?
"I never see him doing any work there," continued Harris, "whenever I goin. He sits behind a bit of glass all day, trying to look as if he wasdoing something. What's the good of a man behind a bit of glass? I haveto work for my living. Why can't he work. What use is he there, andwhat's the good of their banks? They take your money, and then, when youdraw a cheque, they send it back smeared all over with 'No effects,''Refer to drawer.' What's the good of that? That's the sort of trickthey served me twice last week. I'm not going to stand it much longer.I shall withdraw my account. If he was here, we could go and see thattomb. I don't believe he's at the bank at all. He's larking aboutsomewhere, that's what he's doing, leaving us to do all the work. I'mgoing to get out, and have a drink."
I pointed out to him that we were miles away from a pub.; and then hewent on about the river, and what was the good of the river, and waseveryone who came on the river to die of thirst?
It is always best to let Harris have his head when he gets like this.Then he pumps himself out, and is quiet afterwards.
I reminded him that there was concentrated lemonade in the hamper, and agallon-jar of water in the nose of the boat, and that the two only wantedmixing to make a cool and refreshing beverage.
Then he flew off about lemonade, and "such-like Sunday-school slops," ashe termed them, ginger-beer, raspberry syrup, &c., &c. He said they allproduced dyspepsia, and ruined body and soul alike, and were the cause ofhalf the crime in England.
He said he must drink something, however, and climbed upon the seat, andleant over to get the bottle. It was right at the bottom of the hamper,and see
med difficult to find, and he had to lean over further andfurther, and, in trying to steer at the same time, from a topsy-turvypoint of view, he pulled the wrong line, and sent the boat into the bank,and the shock upset him, and he dived down right into the hamper, andstood there on his head, holding on to the sides of the boat like grimdeath, his legs sticking up into the air. He dared not move for fear ofgoing over, and had to stay there till I could get hold of his legs, andhaul him back, and that made him madder than ever.
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