Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Miss Tyrell made no reply, except to favour him with a glance which warned him not to repeat the question, and he walked beside her for some time in silence.

  “Good-bye,” she said, suddenly.

  “I’m not going,” said Fraser, with artless surprise.

  “Mr. Fraser,” said the girl, reddening with anger, “will you please understand that I wish to be alone?”

  “No,” said Mr. Fraser, doggedly.

  “A gentleman would not have to have half as much said to him,” said Poppy, trembling.

  “Well, thank God, I’m not a gentleman,” said Fraser, calmly.

  “If I had a father or a brother you would not behave like this,” said the girl.

  “If you had a father or a brother they would do it instead,” said Fraser, gently; “it’s just because you’ve got nobody else that I’m looking after you.”

  Miss Tyrell, who had softened slightly, stiffened again with temper.

  “You?” she said, hotly. “What right have you to trouble yourself about me?”

  “No right at all,” said Fraser, cheerfully, “but I’m going to do it. If you’ve left the Wheelers, where are you going?”

  Miss Tyrell, gazing straight in front of her, made no reply.

  “Won’t you tell me?” persisted the other.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Poppy, stopping suddenly and facing him. “I’ve got a new berth next Monday, and to-morrow morning I am going to see them to ask them to employ me at once.”

  “And to-night?” suggested the other.

  “I shall go for a walk,” said the girl. “Now that you know all about my concerns, will you please go?”

  “Walk?” repeated Fraser. “Walk? What, all night? You can’t do it — you don’t know what it’s like. Will you let me lend you some money? You can repay me as soon as you like.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “For my sake?” he suggested.

  Miss Tyrell raised her eyebrows.

  “I’m a bad walker,” he explained.

  The reply trembling on Miss Tyrell’s lips realised that it was utterly inadequate to the occasion, and remained unspoken. She walked on in silence, apparently oblivious of the man by her side, and when he next spoke to her made no reply. He glanced at a clock in a baker’s shop as they passed, and saw that it was just seven.

  In this sociable fashion they walked along the Commercial Road and on to Aldgate, and then, passing up Fenchurch Street, mingled with the crowd thronging homewards over London Bridge. They went as far as Kennington in this direction, and then the girl turned and walked back to the City. Fraser, glancing at the pale profile beside him, ventured to speak again.

  “Will you come down to Wapping and take my cabin for the night?” he asked, anxiously. “The mate’s away, and I can turn in fo’ard — you can have it all to yourself.”

  Miss Tyrell, still looking straight in front of her, made no reply, but with another attempt to shake off this pertinacious young man of the sea quickened her pace again. Fraser fell back.

  “If I’m not fit to walk beside you, I’ll walk behind,” he said, in a low voice; “you won’t mind that?”

  In this way they walked through the rapidly thinning streets. It was now dark, and most of the shops had closed. The elasticity had departed from Miss Tyrell’s step, and she walked aimlessly, noting with a sinking at the heart the slowly passing time. Once or twice she halted from sheer weariness, Fraser halting too, and watching her with a sympathy of which Flower would most certainly have disapproved if he had seen it.

  At length, in a quiet street beyond Stratford, she not only stopped, but turned and walked slowly back. Frascr turned too, and his heart beat as he fancied that she intended to overtake him. He quickened his pace in time with the steps behind him until they slackened and faltered; then he looked round and saw her standing in the centre of the pathway with her head bent. He walked back slowly until he stood beside her, and saw that she was crying softly. He placed his hand on her arm.

  “Go away,” she said, in a low voice.

  “I shall not.”

  “You walked away from me just now.”

  “I was a brute,” said Frascr, vehemently.

  The arm beneath his hand trembled, and he drew it unresistingly through his own. In the faint light from the lamp opposite he saw her look at him.

  “I’m very tired,” she said, and leaned on him trustfully. “Were you really going to leave me just now?”

  “You know I was not,” said Fraser, simply.

  Miss Tyrell, walking very slowly, pondered. “I should never have forgiven you if you had,” she said, thoughtfully. “I’m so tired, I can hardly stand. You must take me to your ship.”

  They walked slowly to the end of the road, but the time seemed very short to Fraser. As far as he was concerned he would willingly have dispensed with the tram which they met at the end and the antique four-wheeler in which they completed their journey to the river. They found a waterman’s skiff at the stairs, and sat side by side in the stern, looking contentedly over the dark water, as the waterman pulled in the direction of the Swallow, which was moored in the tier. There was no response to their hail, and Fraser himself, clambering over the side with the painter, assisted Miss Tyrell, who, as the daughter of one sailor and the guest of another, managed to throw off her fatigue sufficiently to admire the lines of the small steamer.

  Fraser conducted her to the cabin, and motioning her to a seat on the locker, went forward to see about some supper. He struck a match in the forecastle and scrutinised the sleepers, and coming to the conclusion that something which was lying doubled up in a bunk, with its head buried in the pillow, was the cook, shook it vigourously.

  “Did you want the cook, sir?” said a voice from another bunk.

  “Yes,” said Fraser, sharply, as he punched the figure again and again.

  “Pore cookie ain’t well, sir,” said the seaman, sympathetically; “‘e’s been very delikit all this evenin’; that’s the worst o’ them teetotalers.”

  “All right; that’ll do,” said the skipper, sharply, as he struck another match, and gave the invalid a final disgusted punch. “Where’s the boy?”

  A small, dirty face with matted hair protruded from the bunk above the cook and eyed him sleepily.

  “Get some supper,” said Fraser, “quick.”

  “Supper, sir?” said the boy with a surprised yawn.

  “And be quick about it,” said the skipper, “and wash you face first and put a comb through your hair. Come, out you get.”

  The small sleeper sighed disconsolately, and, first extending one slender leg, clambered out and began to dress, yawning pathetically as he did so.

  “And some coffee,” said Fraser, as he lit the lamp and turned to depart.

  “Bill,” said the small boy, indignantly.

  “Wot d’ye want?” said the seaman.

  “‘Elp me to wake that drunken pig up,” said the youth, pointing a resentful finger at the cook. “I ain’t goin’ to do all the work.”

  “You leave ‘im alone,” said Bill, ferociously. The cook had been very liberal that evening, and friendship is friendship, after all.

  “That’s what a chap gets by keeping hisself sober,” said the youthful philosopher, as he poured a little cold tea out of the kettle on his handkerchief and washed himself. “Other people’s work to do.”

  He went grumbling up to the galley, and, lighting some sticks, put the kettle on, and then descended to the cabin, starting with genuine surprise as he saw the skipper sitting opposite a pretty girl, who was leaning back in her seat fast asleep.

  “Cook’ll be sorry ‘e missed this,” he murmured, as he lighted up and began briskly to set the table. He ran up on deck again to see how his fire was progressing, and thrusting his head down the forecastle communicated the exciting news to Bill.

  To Fraser sitting watching his sleeping guest it seemed like a beautiful dream. That Poppy Tyrell should be sitting
in his cabin and looking to him as her only friend seemed almost incredible. A sudden remembrance of Flower subdued at once the ardour of his gaze, and he sat wondering vaguely as to the whereabouts of that erratic mariner until his meditations were broken by the entrance of the boy with the steaming coffee, followed by Bill bearing a couple of teaspoons.

  “I nearly went to sleep,” said Poppy, as Fraser roused her gently.

  She took off her hat and jacket, and Fraser, taking them from her, laid them reverently in his bunk. Then Poppy moved farther along the seat, and, taking some coffee pronounced herself much refreshed.

  “I’ve been very rude to you,” she said, softly; “but Mrs. Wheeler was very unkind, and said that of course I should go to you. That was why.”

  “Mrs. Wheeler is—” began Fraser, and stopped suddenly.

  “Of course it was quite true,” said Poppy, healthfully attacking her plate; “I did have to come to you.”

  “It was rather an odd way of coming,” said Fraser; “my legs ache now.”

  The girl laughed softly, and continued to laugh. Then her eyes moistened, and her face became troubled. Fraser, as the best thing to do, made an excuse and went up on deck, to the discomfort of Bill and the boy, who were not expecting him.

  Poppy was calm again by the time he returned, and thanked him again softly as he showed her her bunk and withdrew for the night. Bill and the boy placed their berths at his disposal, but he declined them in favour of a blanket in the galley, where he sat up, and slept but ill all night, and was a source of great embarrassment to the cook next morning when he wanted to enter to prepare breakfast.

  Poppy presided over that meal, and it, and the subsequent walk to discover lodgings, are among Fraser’s dearest memories. He trod on air through the squalid roads by her side, and, the apartments having been obtained, sat on the arm of the armchair — the most comfortable part — and listened to her plans.

  “And you won’t go away without letting me know?” he said, as he rose to depart.

  Miss Tyrell shook her head, and her eyes smiled at him. “You know I won’t,” she said, softly. “I don’t want to.”

  She saw him to the door, and until he had quitted the gate, kept it hospitably open. Fraser, with his head in a whirl, went back to the Swallow.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  The prime result of Mrs. Banks’ nocturnal ramble with Mr. William Green, was a feeling of great bitterness against her old friend, Captain John Barber. Mr. Green, despite her protests, was still a member of the crew of the Foam, and walked about Seabridge in broad daylight, while she crept forth only after sundown, and saw a hidden meaning in every “Fine evening, Mrs. Banks,” which met her. She pointed out to Captain Barber, that his refusal to dismiss Mr. Green was a reflection upon her veracity, and there was a strange light in her eyes and a strange hardening of her mouth, as the old man said that to comply with her request would be to reflect upon the polite seaman’s veracity.

  Her discomfiture was not lessened by the unbecoming behaviour of her daughter, who in some subtle manner, managed to convey that her acceptance of her mother’s version of the incident depended upon the way she treated Mr. Frank Gibson. It was a hard matter to a woman of spirit, and a harder thing still, that those of her neighbours who listened to her account of the affair were firmly persuaded that she was setting her cap at Captain Barber.

  To clear her character from this imputation, and at the same time to mark her sense of the captain’s treatment of her, Mrs. Banks effected a remarkable change of front, and without giving him the slightest warning, set herself to help along his marriage to Mrs. Church.

  She bantered him upon the subject when she met him out, and, disregarding his wrathful embarrassment, accused him in a loud voice of wearing his tie in a love-knot. She also called him a turtledove. The conversation ended here, the turtledove going away crimson with indignation and cooing wickedly.

  Humbled by the terrors of his position, the proud shipowner turned more than ever to Captain Nibletts for comfort and sympathy, and it is but due to that little man to say that anything he could have done for his benefactor would have given him the greatest delight. He spent much of his spare time in devising means for his rescue, all of which the old man listened to with impatience and rejected with contumely.

  “It’s no good, Nibletts,” he said, as they sat in the subdued light of the cabin one evening.

  “Nothing can be done. If anything could be done, I should have thought of it.”

  “Yes, that’s what struck me,” said the little skipper, dutifully.

  “I’ve won that woman’s ‘art,” said Captain Barber, miserably; “in ‘er anxiety to keep me, the woman’s natur’ has changed. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do to make sure of me.”

  “It’s understandable,” said Nibletts.

  “It’s understandable,” agreed Captain Barber, “but it’s orkard. Instead o’ being a mild, amiable sort o’ woman, all smiles, the fear o’ losing me has changed ‘er into a determined, jealous woman. She told me herself it was love of me as ‘ad changed her.”

  “You ain’t written to her, I suppose?” asked Nibletts, twisting his features into an expression of great cunning.

  Captain Barber shook his head. “If you’d think afore speaking, Nibletts,” he said, severely, “you’d know as people don’t write to each other when they’re in the same house.”

  The skipper apologised. “What I mean to say is this,” he said, softly. “She hasn’t got your promise in writing, and she’s done all the talking about it. I’m the only one you’ve spoken to about it, I s’pose?”

  Captain Barber nodded.

  “Well, forget all about it,” said Nibletts, in an excited whisper.

  Captain Barber looked at him pityingly.

  “What good’ll that do?” he asked.

  “Forget the understanding,” continued Nibletts, in a stage whisper, “forget everything; forget Captain Flower’s death, act as you acted just afore he went. People’ll soon see as you’re strange in your manner, and I’ll put the news about as you’ve been so affected by that affair that your memory’s gone.”

  “I was thinking of doing that the other day myself,” said Captain Barber, slowly and untruthfully.

  “I thought you was, from something you said,” replied Nibletts.

  “I think I spoke of it, or I was going to,” said Barber.

  “You did say something,” said Nibletts.

  “I wonder what would be the best way to begin,” said Barber, regarding him attentively.

  Captain Niblett’s nerve failed him at the responsibility.

  “It’s your plan, Captain Barber,” he said, impressively, “and nobody can tell a man like you how it should be done. It wants acting, and you’ve got to have a good memory to remember that you haven’t got a memory.”

  “Say that agin,” said Captain Barber, breathing thickly.

  Captain Nibletts repeated it, and Captain Barber, after clearing his brain with a glass of spirits, bade him a solemn good-night, and proceeded slowly to his home. The door was opened by Mrs. Church, and a hum of voices from the front room indicated company. Captain Barber, hanging his hat on a peg, entered the room to discover Mrs. Banks and daughter, attended by Mr. Gibson.

  “Where’s Fred?” he asked, slowly, as he took a seat.

  “Who?” said Miss Banks, with a little scream.

  “Lawk-a-mussy, bless the man,” said her mother. “I never did.”

  “Not come in yet?” asked Barber, looking round with a frightful stare. “The Foam’s up!”

  The company exchanged glances of consternation.

  “Why, is he alive?” enquired Mrs. Church, sharply.

  “Alive!” repeated Captain Barber. “Why shouldn’t he be? He was alive yesterday, wasn’t he?”

  There was a dead silence, and then Captain Barber from beneath his shaggy eyebrows observed with delight that Gibson, tapping his forehead significantly, gave a warning glance at the other
s, while all four sitting in a row watched anxiously for the first signs of acute mania.

  “I expect he’s gone round after you, my dear,” said the wily Barber to Miss Banks.

  In the circumstances this was certainly cruel, and Gibson coughed confusedly.

  “I’ll go and see,” said Miss Banks, hurriedly; “come along, mother.”

  The two ladies, followed by Mr. Gibson, shook hands and withdrew hurriedly. Captain Barber, wondering how to greet Mrs. Church after he had let them out, fixed his eyes on the carpet and remained silent.

  “Aren’t you well?” enquired the lady, tenderly.

  “Well, ma’am?” repeated Uncle Barber, with severity.

  “Ma’am?” said Mrs. Church, in tones of tender reproach; “two hours ago I was Laura. Have you been to the ‘Thorn’?”

  “What ‘Thorn’?” demanded Captain Barber, who had decided to forget as much as possible, as the only safe way.

  “The Thorn Inn,” said Mrs. Church, impatiently.

  “Where is it?” enquired Captain Barber, ingenuously.

  Mrs. Church looked at him with deep consideration. “Why, at the end of the cottages, opposite the ‘Swan.”

  “What ‘Swan’?” enquired Captain Barber.

  “The Swan Inn,” said Mrs. Church, restraining her temper, but with difficulty.

  “Where is it?” said Uncle Barber, with breezy freshness.

  “Opposite the ‘Thorn,’ at the end of the row,” said Mrs. Church, slowly.

  “Well, what about it?” enquired Captain Barber.

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Church, sharply, and proceeded to set supper.

  Captain Barber, hugging himself over his scheme, watched her eagerly, evincing a little bewilderment as she brought on a small, unappetizing rind of cheese, bread, two glasses, and a jug of water. He checked himself just in time from asking for the cold fowl and bacon left from dinner, and, drawing his chair to the table, eyed the contents closely.

  “Only bread and cheese?” he said, somewhat peevishly.

  “That’s all,” said Mrs. Church, smiling; “bread and cheese and kisses.”

  Captain Barber tapped his forehead. “What did we have for dinner?” he asked, suddenly.