Once Aboard the Lugger-- The History of George and his Mary

by W. W. Jacobs

  "I don't like it," George said. "I don't like it."

  "Dearest, nor I. But we can't, can't have what we like, and this will bethe best of the nasty things. For so short a time, too. I'm quite brightabout it. Am I not? Look at me."

  George looked. Then he said, "All right, old girl."

  She clapped her hands. "Only one thing more. You mustn't seek out--youmustn't touch the detestable Bob."

  With the gloom of one relinquishing life's greatest prize George said,"I suppose I mustn't." He added, "I tell you what, though. You mustn'tinterfere with this. I'll save it up for him. The day I take you out andmarry you I'll pull him out--and pay him."

  They parted upon the promises that Mary would write that evening to tellhim of the result of her interview with Mrs. Chater, and that, in theespecial circumstances, he might come to see her in the Park for justtwo minutes on Monday morning.

  And each went home, thinking, not of that portending interview with Mrs.Chater, but upon the love they had declared.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Events And Sentiment Mixed In A Letter.

  I.

  At ten o'clock that night Mary took up her pen.

  "First, my dear, to tell you that it is all right. I may stay. I hadlunch with the children in the nursery, and just as we had finisheda maid came to say that Mrs. Chater would see me in the study. Down Icrawled, wishing that I was the heroine of a novel who would have passedfirmly down the stairs and into the room, 'pale, but calm and serene.'Oh! I was pale enough, I feel sure. But as to serene!--my heart wasflapping about just like a tin ventilator in a wind, and I was jumpy allover. You see what a coward am I.

  "Mrs. Chater had grown since last I saw her. Of that I am convinced. Shesat, enormous, thunder-browed, bolt upright in a straight chair. I stoodand quivered. Books are all wrong, dear. In books the consciousness ofvirtue gives one complete self-possession in the face of any accusation,however terrible. In books it is the accuser of the innocent who is illat ease. Oh, don't believe it! Mrs. Chater had the self-possession, Ihad the jim-jams.

  "'I have not seen you since last night,' she said.

  "I gave a kind of terrified little squeak. I had no words.

  "'Your version of what happened I do not wish to hear,' she went on.

  "This relieved me, because for the life of me I could not have told herhad she wished to hear it. So I gave another little mouse-squeak.

  "'My son has told me.' Her voice was like a deep bell. 'How you canreconcile your conduct with the treatment that you have received at myhands, here beneath my roof'--she was very dramatic at this point--'I donot know.'

  "Nor did I--but not in the way she meant. I was thinking how ignoble wasmy meek attitude in light of what had happened. But you don't know whatit was like, facing that woman and dreading the worse fate of beingturned out into this awful London again. Another wretched little squeakslipped out of me, and she went on.

  "'My boy,' said she, 'has implored me to overlook this matter. Myboy has declared there were faults on both sides' (!!!!). 'If I actedrightly as a mother, what would I do?'

  "I didn't tell her, Georgie. Could I tell her that if she acted rightlyas a mother she would box her boy's fat ears until his nose bled? Icouldn't. I squeaked instead.

  "'If I acted rightly as a mother,' said she, 'I would send you away. Iam not going to.'

  "I squeaked.

  "'I choose to believe that your behaviour in this matter was a slip. Ibelieve the episode will be a lesson to you. That is all. Go.' I goed."

  II.

  George, when he had read thus far, was broadly grinning. ObviouslyMrs. Chater was not such a bad sort after all. If--as no doubt--sheimplicitly believed her son's version of the incident, then her attitudetowards Mary was, on the whole, not so bad.

  But his Mary, when she had written thus far, laid down her pen, put herpretty head upon the paper and wept.

  "Oh, my dear!" she choked. "There, that will make you think it was allright. You shall never know--never--what really happened. Oh, Georgie,Georgie, come very quick and take me away! How can I go on living withthese beasts? Oh, Georgie, be quick, be quick!"

  Then this silly Mary with handkerchief, with india-rubber, and withpen-knife erased a stain of grief that had fallen upon her pretty story;sniffed back her tears; lifted again her pen.

  Now she wrote in an eager scrawl; nib flying. Had her George not been sovery ordinary a young man he must have perceived the difference betweenthat first portion so neatly penned--parti-coloured words showing wherethe ink had dried while the poor little brain puzzled and planned atevery syllable--and this where emotion sped the thoughts.

  III.

  "So that's all right" (she wrote), "and now we've only got to wait, afew, few weeks. Dearest, will they fly or will they drag? What does lovedo to time, I wonder--whip or brake?--speed or pull? Georgie mine, Ifeel I don't care. If the days fly I shall be riding in them--gallopingto you, wind in the face; shouting them on; standing up all flushed withthe swing and the rush of it; waving to the people we go thundering pastand gazing along the road where soon I will see you--nearer and nearerand nearer.

  "And if the days creep? Well, at first, after that picture, the thoughtseems melancholy, unbearable. But that is wrong. The realisation willnot be unbearable. If they creep, why, then I shall lie in them, verycomfortable, very happy; dreaming of you, seeing you, speaking with you,touching you. Yes, touching you. For, my dear, you are here in theroom with me as I write. I look up just to my right, and there you are,Georgie mine; sitting on the end of my bed, smiling at me. You havenot left me, my dear, since we parted on the seat this morning. Why, Icannot even write that it is only in imagination that I see you. For meit is not imagination. I do, do see you, Georgie mine. You are part ofme, never to leave me.

  "How new, how different, love makes life! Everything I do, everythingI see, everything I hear has a new interest because it is something toshare with you, something to save up and tell you. I am in trouble(you understand that I am not, shall never be again; this is onlyillustration--you must read it 'if I were in trouble'). I am in trouble,and you are sharing it with me, sympathising so that trouble is anunkind word for what is indeed but an opportunity acutely to feelthe joy of loving and being loved. I am happy, and the happiness is athousandfold increased because it comes to me warmed through you. Iam amused, and it is something to tell you and to laugh at the moreheartily by the compelling sound of your own laughter.

  "Everything is new. Why, my very clothes are new. Look, here in my lefthand is my handkerchief. Only a handkerchief this morning, and to othereyes still but a handkerchief. But to mine! Why, you have had it in yourhand and indeed it speaks to me of you. Here you laid your arm, this wasthe side upon which you touched me as we sat together, here in my hairyour fingers caressed me--each and all they are new--different from thismorning.

  "Are you thinking me silly when I write like this, or are you dreadfullybored with it? I can't help it, Georgie; love means so much more to uswomen than to you men. It is essentially different. When a man inlove thinks of the woman he thinks of her as 'mine,' and that thrillshim--possession. But when the woman thinks of him she thinks ofherself as 'his,' and that moves every fibre of her, strikes everychord--capitulation. The man expresses love by saying 'You are mine';the woman by 'I am yours.' That is how it is with me. I sing to myselfthat I am yours, yours, yours. I want you to have every bit of me. Iwant you to know every thought I have. If I had bad thoughts, I wouldtell them you. If I had desires, I would make them known and wouldnot blush. I want you to see right into my very heart. I want to layeverything before you--to come to you bound and naked. That is what loveis with women, dear. Some of us resist it, school it otherwise--but I donot think they are happy; not really happy. It is our nature to be as Ihave said, and to fight against nature is wearying work, leaving marks:it is to get tossed aside out of the sun.

  "Are you thinking me unutterably tiresome and foolish?--but you will notthink that; because you love me.


  "Ah, let me write that again!-because you love me. And let me writethis: I love you.

  "My dear, is not that curious?--the precious joy of saying 'I love you,'and the constant yearning to hear it said. Not lovers alone have thisjoy and this desire. Mothers teach their babies to say 'I love you,mother,' and constantly and constantly they ask, 'Do you love me, baby?'--yes, and are not satisfied until they have the assurance. And babies,too, will get up suddenly from their toys to run to say, 'Mother, I _do_love you.'

  "Why is it? Why is love so doubted that it must for ever be declared? Sodoubted that even those who do love must constantly be proclaimingthe fact to the object of their affections, impelled either by thesubconscious fear that that object mistrusts the devotion, or by thesubconscious fear that they themselves are under delusion and mustprotest aloud--just as a child upon the brink of being frightened in thedark will say aloud, 'I'm not afraid!' Why is it?

  "Actions are allowed to proclaim hate, deeds suffice to advertisesympathy, but love must be testified by bond. To what crimes must lovehave been twisted and contorted that it should come to such a pass? Howoften must it have been used as disguise to be now thus suspected?

  "You never knew I thought of things like this, did you?

  "My dear dear, I who am so frivolous think of yet deeper things. And Iwould speak of them to you tonight, for I would have you know my heartand mind as, dearest (how dear to think!), you know my face. Yes, ofdeeper things. I suppose clever people would laugh at the religion mymother and father lived in, taught me, died in, and now is mine. Theybelieved--and I believe--in what I have heard called the Sunday SchoolGod! the God who lives, who listens, and to whom I pray. I have readbooks attempting to shatter this belief--yes, and I think succeedingbecause written with a cunning appeal only to the intelligence of man.Can such a Being as God exist? they ask. And since man's intelligencecan only grasp proved facts, proofs are heaped upon proof thatHe cannot. The impossibilities are heaped until man must--of hislimitations--cry that it is impossible. But in my belief God is abovethe possibilities--not to be judged by them, not to be reduced to them.I suppose such a belief is Faith--implicit Faith--the Faith that we aretold makes all things possible. Well, fancy, for the sake of having a'religion' that comes into line with 'reason,' abandoning the sense ofcomfort that comes after prayer! Fancy receiving a 'reasoned' belief andpaying for it the solace of entreating help in the smallest trouble andin the largest!

  "Do you know, my dear dear, that I pray for you every night?--for yourhealth, your happiness, and your success?

  "Now you know a little more of me. Is there more to learn, I wonder? Notif I can make it clear.

  "The candle is in a most melancholy condition: in the last stage ofcollapse. I have prodded it out from its socket with my knife and set itflabbily on a penny--so it must work to its very last drop of life. Thatwill not be long delayed. I shall suddenly be plunged into darknessand must undress in the dark. I shall be smiling all the time I amundressing, my thoughts with you.

  "At eleven--ten minutes' time--I am to be leaning from the window gazingat Orion as you too--so we agreed--will be gazing. Each will knowthe other has his thoughts, and we will say 'good-night.' Howutterly foolish! How contemptibly absurd, common!--and how mysticallydelightful! You and I with Orion for the apex of eye's sight and ourthoughts flying from heart to heart the base!

  "Georgie mine, if we had never met could we have ever been so happy?Impossible! Impossible! Before I pray for you to-night, I thank God foryou.

  "I have kissed the corner where I shall just be able to squeezein--good-night."

  Such was her letter-disloyal to women in its exposure of those truthsof women's love which are theirs by the heritage of ages, by theirdaily training from childhood upward, and against which they should mostdesperately battle; simple in its ideas of religion; silly in its babysentiment.

  Such was my Mary.

  CHAPTER V.

  Beefsteak For 14 Palace Gardens.

  I.

  Friday was the night of the incident in the library between Bob Chaterand Mary; Saturday the exchange of love in the Park between Mary andher George; Saturday evening the writing of Mary's letter; upon MondayGeorge read it.

  Now it was Monday morning, and precisely at ten o'clock three personsset out for the same seat in Regent's Park--the mind of each filled withone of the others, empty of all thought of the third.

  Mary--accompanied by David and Angela--carried towards the seat theimage of her George, but had no heed of Mr. Bob Chater's existence; shewas the magnet that drew Bob, ignorant of George; George sped to hisMary and had no thought of Bob.

  Our young men were handicapped in point of distance. Mary, with buta short half-mile to go, must easily be first to make the seat; Bob,coming to town from a week-end up the river, would occupy little shortof an hour. George from Herons' Holt to that dear seat, allowed fullseventy-five minutes.

  II.

  Upon the whole, Mr. Bob Chater had not enjoyed his week-end; ideallycircumstanced, for once the attractions it offered had failed to allure.

  Mr. Lemmy Moss, in the tiny riparian cottage he rented for the summermonths, was the most excellent of hosts; Claude Avinger was widely knownas a rattling good sort; the three young ladies who came down early onSunday morning and had no foolish objections to staying indecorouslylate, were in face, figure and morals all that Bob, Lemmy, and Claudecould desire. Yet throughout that day in the cushioned punt Bob won morepouts than smiles from the lady who fell to his guardianship.

  Disgustedly she remarked to her friends on the home journey, "Fairlychucked myself at him, the deadhead "--wherein, I apprehend, lay hermistake. For whether a man's assault upon a woman be dictated by loveor desire, its vehemence is damped by acquiescence, spurred by rebuff.Doubtless for our lusty forefathers one-half the fascination ofobtaining to wife the naked ladies who caught their eye lay in thetremendous excitement of snatching them from their tribes; while for theladies, the joy of capture comprised a great proportion of the amorousdelights.

  The characteristics remain. Maidens are more decorously won to-day;their tribes do not defend them; but they do the fighting forthemselves. The sturdier the defence they are able to make, the greaterthe joy of at length being won; while, for the suitor, the more pains hehath endured in process of conquest the more keenly doth he relish hiscaptive.

  So with Bob. The young lady fairly chucking herself at him in the punthe could not forbear to contrast with the enticing reserve of Mary. Themore playfully (or desperately, poor girl) she chucked herself at him,the more did her charms cloy as against those of that other prize who sostoutly kept him at arm's-length. Nay, the more strenuously did sheseek to entice his good offices, the more troubled was he to imagine whyanother of her sex should so slightingly regard him.

  Thus, as the day wore on, was Bob thrice impelled towards Mary--byinitial attraction of her beauty; by natural instinct to show himselfmaster where, till now, he had been bested; and by the stabbings of hiswounded vanity.

  On Monday morning, then, he caught the ten o'clock train to town, hotin the determination immediately to see her and instantly to press hissuit. He would try, he told himself, a new strategy. Bold assault hadbeen proved ill-advised; for frontal attack must be substituted anadvance more crafty. Its plan required no seeking. He would play--and,to a certain extent, would sincerely play--the part of penitent. Hewould apologise for Friday's lapse; would explain it to have been theoutcome of sheer despair of ever winning her good graces.

  As to where he would find her he had no doubts. Dozing one day over abook, he had not driven David and Angela from the room until theyhad forced upon him a wearisome account of the secluded seat they haddiscovered in Regent's Park. His patience in listening was an example ofthe profit of casting one's bread upon the waters; for, making withouthesitation for the seat, he discovered Mary.

  III.

  The children, as he approached, were standing before her. David hadscratched his finger, and the three w
ere breathlessly examining thewounded hand for traces of the disaster. Brightly Mary was explainingthat the place of the wound was over the home of very big drops of"blug," which could not possibly squeeze out of so tiny a window; whenAngela, turning at footsteps, exclaimed: "Oh, dear, oh, dear, what_shall_ we do? Here's Bob!"

  Alarm drummed in Mary's heart: fluttered upon her cheeks. She had felt,as she told her George, so certain that from Bob she had now not evenacknowledgment to fear, that this deliberate intrusion set her mindbounding into disordered apprehensions--stumbling among them, terrified,out of breath.

  When he had raised his hat, bade her good morning, she could but sitdumbly staring at him-questioning, incapable of speech.