Chapter II.
PORT NASSAU.
They left the beach, climbed a road across the neck of the promontory,and rattled downhill into Port Nassau. Dusk had fallen before theyreached the head of its cobbled street; and here one of the postillionsdrew out a horn from his holster and began to blow loud blasts on it.This at once drew the townsfolk into the road and warned them to get outof the way.
To the child, drowsed by the strong salt air and the rocking of thecoach, the glimmering whitewashed houses on either hand went by like aprocession in a dream. The figures and groups of men and women on theside-walks, too, had a ghostly, furtive air. They seemed to the boy tobe whispering together and muttering. Now this was absurd; for whatwith the blare of the postillion's horn, the clatter of hoofs, thejolting and rumbling of wheels, the rattle of glass, our travellers hadall the noise to themselves--or all but the voice of the gale now risingagain for an afterclap and snoring at the street corners. Yet hisinstinct was right. Many of the crowd _were_ muttering. These NewEnglanders had no love to spare for a Collector of Customs, a finegentlemen from Old England and (rumour said) an atheist to boot. Theyresented this ostent of entry; the men more sullenly than the women,some of whom in their hearts could not help admiring its high-and-mightyinsolence.
The Collector, at any rate, had a crowd to receive him, for it wasSaturday evening. On Saturdays by custom the fishing-fleet of PortNassau made harbour before nightfall, and the crews kept a sort ofdecorous carnival before the Sabbath, of which they were strictobservers. In the lower part of the town, by the quays, much buying andselling went on, in booths of sail-cloth lit as a rule by oil-flares.For close upon a week no boat had been able to put to sea; but theSaturday market and the Saturday gossip and to-and-fro strolling were infull swing none the less, though the salesmen had to substitutehurricane-lamps for their ordinary flares, and the boy--now wide awakeagain--had a passing glimpse of a couple of booths that had been wreckedby the rising wind and were being rebuilt. He craned out to stare atthe helpers, while they, pausing in their work and dragged to and fro bythe flapping canvas, stared back as the coach went by.
It came to a halt on a level roadway some few rods beyond this brighttraffic, in an open space which, he knew, must be near the waterside,for beyond the lights of the booths he had spied a cluster of mastsquite close at hand. Or perhaps he had fallen asleep and in his sleephad been transported far inland. For the wind had suddenly died down,the coach appeared to be standing in a forest glade--at any rate, amongtrees--and through the trees fell a soft radiance that might well be themoon's were it only a tinge less yellow. In the shine of it stoodManasseh, holding open the coach door; and as the child stepped outthese queer impressions were succeeded by one still more curious andstartling. For a hand, as it seemed, reached out of the darkness,brushed him smartly across the face, and was gone. He gave a little cryand stood staring aloft at a lantern that hung some feet above him froman arched bracket. Across its glass face ran the legend BOWLING GREENINN, in orange-coloured lettering, and the ray of its oil-lamp waveredon the boughs of two tall maples set like sentinels by the Inn gatewayand reddening now to the fall of the leaf. Yes, the ground about hisfeet was strewn with leaves: it must be one of these that had brushed byhis face.
If the folk in the streets had been sullen, those of the Inn were eagerenough, even obsequious. A trio of grooms fell to unharnessing thehorses; a couple of porters ran to and fro, unloading the baggage andcooking-pots; while the landlady shouted orders right and left in theporchway. She deemed, honest soul, that she was mistress of theestablishment, until Manasseh undeceived her.
Manasseh's huge stature and gold-encrusted livery commanded respect inspite of his colour. He addressed her as "woman." "Woman, if you willstop yo' cacklin' and yo' crowin'? Go in now and fetch me fish, fetchme chickens, fetch me plenty eggs. Fetch me a dam scullion. Heh?Stir yo' legs and fetch me a dam scullion, and the chickens tender.His Exc'llence mos' partic'ler the chickens tender."
Still adjuring her he shouldered his way through the house to thekitchen, whence presently his voice sounded loud, authoritative, abovethe clatter of cooking-pots. From time to time he broke away from thebusiness of unpacking to reiterate his demands for fish, eggs,chicken--the last to be tender at all costs and at pain of histremendous displeasure.
"And I assure you, ma'am," said Captain Vyell, standing in the passageat the door of his private room, "his standard is a high one. I believethe blackguard never stole a tough fowl in his life. . . . Show me to mybedroom, please, if the trunks are unstrapped; and the child, here, tohis. . . . Eh? What's this?--a rush-light? I don't use rush-lights.Go to Manasseh and ask him to unpack you a pair of candles."
The landlady returned with a silver candlestick in either hand, andcandles of real wax. She had never seen the like, and led the wayupstairs speculating on their cost. The bedrooms proved to be clean,though bare and more than a little stuffy--their windows having beenkept shut for some days against the gale. The Collector commanded themto be opened. The landlady faintly protested. "The wind would gutterthe candles--and such wax too!" She was told to obey, and she obeyed.
In the boy's room knelt a girl--a chambermaid--unstrapping his smallvalise. She had a rush-light on the floor beside her, and did not lookup as the landlady thrust open the lattice and left the room with theCollector, the boy remaining behind. His candle stood upon a chest ofdrawers by the window; and, as the others went out, a draught of windcaught the dimity curtain, blew it against the flame, and in an instantignited it.
The girl looked up swiftly at the sudden light above her, and asswiftly--before the child could cry out--was on her feet. She caughtthe fire between her two hands and beat it out, making no noise andscarcely flinching, though her flesh was certainly being scorched.
"That was lucky," she said, looking across at him with a smile.
"Ruth!--Ruth!" called the landlady's voice, up the corridor."Here, a moment!"
She dropped the charred curtain and hurried to answer the call.
"Ruth! Where's the bootjack? His Honour will take off hisriding-boots."
"Bootjack, ma'am?" interrupted the Collector, leaning back in a chairand extending a shapely leg with instep and ankle whereon theriding-boot fitted like a glove. "I don't maul my leather withbootjacks. Send Manasseh upstairs to me; ask him with my complimentswhat the devil he means by clattering saucepans when he should beattending to his master. . . . Eh, what's this?"
"She can do it, your Honour," said the landlady, catching Ruth by theshoulder and motioning her to kneel and draw off the boot.(It is likely she shirked carrying the message.)
"Oh, very well--if only she won't twist my foot. . . . Take care of thespur, child."
The girl knelt, and with her blistered hand took hold of the boot-heelbelow the spur. It cost her exquisite pain, but she did not wince; andher head being bent, no one perceived the tears in her eyes.
She had scarcely drawn off the second boot, when Manasseh appeared inthe doorway carrying a silver tray with glasses and biscuits; a glass ofred wine for his master, a more innocent cordial for the younggentleman, and both glasses filmed over with the chill of crushed ice.
The girl was withdrawing when the Collector, carelessly feeling in hispocket, drew out a coin and put it into her hand. Her fingers closed onit sharply, almost with a snatch. In truth, the touch of metal was sointolerable to the burnt flesh that, but for clutching it so, she musthave dropped the coin. Still with bowed head she passed quietly fromthe room.
Master Dicky munched his macaroon and sipped his cordial. He had awhole guinea in his breeches pocket, and was thinking it would be greatfun to step out and explore the town, if only for a little way.To-morrow was Sunday, and all the stores would be closed. But Manassehwas too busy to come with him for bodyguard--and his father's boots wereoff; and besides, he stood in great awe and shyness of his admiredparent. Had the boots been on, it would have cost him a bold effort tomake the request.
On the whole, the cordial warming him, Master Dickyhad a mind to take French leave.
Lady Good-for-Nothing: A Man's Portrait of a Woman Page 2